


the forest is dark and deep and i've seen you here before

by victoriousscarf



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Multi, PTSD flashbacks, Panic Attacks, Past Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Time Travel Creates Dubious Consent, untreated PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-02-28 13:09:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 40,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13272102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victoriousscarf/pseuds/victoriousscarf
Summary: It's been eight years since the Conclave, and he's saved the world once, and failed to save it a second time, but the last thing Inquisitor Lavellan expects is to wake up a few days before the Conclave, with all the memories of the last eight years.But he did save the world once, and he can't just run away from that destiny.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Me @ myself: What are you even doing starting a new story???
> 
> Me also @ myself: I just really wanted to write it okay??
> 
> Based somewhat on this [prompt](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13696.html?thread=52617088) from the kinkmeme. I just... couldn't get the idea out of my head this is a trope I love. And honestly it's M!Lavellan/Solas because my M!Lavellan playthrough was the first time out of like... three other playthroughs I actually got totally super invested in the game and also super totally invested in Solas for the first time too. And then I spent the whole playthrough wishing I could romance him. So that's just why we're going with that. (Also I have a lot of feelings about why Solas should be romancable by anyone but anyway)

There was fire in the sky and a scream in Mahanon's throat because after _everything_ , after the pain and the relentless years there was failure laid out in the ground in front of him. Solas stood, looking at him and not the end of the world—

And he found himself reaching forward anyway, despite everything, even though his vision was blackening out, and he couldn't see Solas anymore, as something struck him from behind, digging into his lungs and he couldn't breath because he could feel his lungs cave in, feel the blood soaking through them—

But then Mahanon opened his eyes.

He opened his eyes to darkness, and he sucked in a breath and the air was fresh and cold, with no smoke or blood in it. Sitting up, he could breath with no pain, and there were no screams. Fumbling, he staggered off the bedroll he had apparently been sleeping on, falling outside.

The sky was still there, stars shining down and for a moment he frowned at the sky because even before Solas started implementing his plan there had been a scar, a scar left over from closing the Breach not only once but twice and he couldn't find it.

Slowly, he started to notice other things.

Like his hand.

Mahanon lifted his left hand, curling his fingers into a fist and slowly uncurling them. His hand was not only there, but there were no traces of the Mark on it, no green light that had kept him company for five years before Solas had taken both the Mark and his hand to save his life.

Now he held his hand up and it didn't make sense.

The world had been ending around him, he had _died_ , he knew what blood flooding into his lungs meant, let alone the fire falling from the sky. And now he stood here, with his hand intact. He looked down, and frowned, because the armor he wore was the same as he had worn during most of his time as the Inquisitor, though the glove on his left hand was back, despite the modifications he had made to accommodate the prosthetic Dagna made him.

“This doesn't seem to fit any afterlife they told me about,” he murmured, because the sound of hallas had finally penetrated the fog of his shock. He looked around quickly, noticing the aravels, arranged in a circle around their campsite.

“What is happening?” he whispered, standing in the darkness and looking at the aravels of his youth, where he had grown up, and which he had not seen in eight long years. “This can't be right—”

“Mahanon,” a voice said, and he whirled around, finding Keeper Istimaethoriel standing behind him. “What is the—” and she cut off abruptly, staring at him.

“Keeper,” Mahanon said, voice breaking. “Keeper when—when is this?”

She tilted her head to one side, still staring open mouthed at him. “These are not clothes you have ever owned.”

“No,” he agreed, because he built this armor himself as Dagna fluttered around, talking him through applying the masterwork to it. He had built it out of veilquartz, found in the ashes of rifts he closed himself.

There was no Breach in the sky, no scar, which meant no rifts had appeared yet. There would be no veilquartz for him to even make the armor out of.

“And your face,” she said and he winced, because when he had left for the conclave, he had only the markings underneath his eyes. Now the entire tree of Mythal graced his face, given to him by Hawen on the Exalted Plains, after he drank from the well of Mythal, and expressly to infuriate Solas. “You could not have done that in the time since I said good night, only a few hours ago.”

“Keeper,” he said, desperate. “When is it.”

“The year? The day?”

“The year,” he said, and his armor clanked in the stillness of the night as he crossed his arms. It was not Dalish armor, meant for quick movement as he hunted to help feed the tribe. It was human armor, created to support his position as an elf leading an army.

“Forty-One Dragon,” she said.

“The conclave hasn't happened yet,” Mahanon said and she looked at him.

“I was to speak with you of that tomorrow,” she said and Mahanon closed his eyes.

“I remember this night,” he said, eyes still closed. “I remember the anticipation of knowing of the gathering, wondering what we might do. And then the next day you told me you wanted me to go. To spy on them, to find out which way the wind would blow and how it would affect our tribe.”

She blinked at him and he sucked in a deep breath, slowly letting it out. “I think we should talk this night, you and I,” she said and he nodded, letting her lead him to the edge of the camp, sitting down gracefully on a fallen log and he sat, cross legged, on the ground across from her.

“I hardly know where to begin to explain,” he said, tilting his head back to look at the sky again.

“You said you already remember this night,” she said.

“I have lived... almost eight years past this night,” he said, unable to look at her face as he said it. “I remember what must have been dying. I fell, having failed all I promised to achieve, all I promised to stop—and I fell. I don't know what else might have fallen with me. But then I woke up here, tonight,” and as he spoke he found himself alternating between looking at the sky and at his hand. “With all my memories. With the armor that _could not_ have been created in this time, bearing the marks I gave myself five years ago, but without the scars.”

Keeper Istimaethoriel steepled her fingers, watching him as he finally met her gaze. “You say you lived almost another life past this moment.”

“It starts with the conclave,” Mahanon said. “You ask me to go and I go.”

“You say you fear you failed,” she said. “Do you not wish to go to the conclave? I would hardly make you.”

Mahanon felt like all the breath left his lungs at once, not unlike he felt as they were crushed from behind. “Not... go to the conclave,” he repeated.

She nodded. “But before we make that decision perhaps you should tell me more of this life you remember having led.”

“I saved the world,” he said softly and saw her eyes widen. “I stood in front of an ancient evil and I found a way to defeat it. I became the leader—the leader of an army. Humans bowed to me, elves joined me, even the dwarves became my allies.”

“Humans, bowing to any elf?” Keeper Istimaethoriel asked. “How could such a thing be so? Our clan already is closer to the shems than most of our people and even I would call that a fever dream.”

“I know,” Mahanon whispered. “But it was what happened. And then—and then the old gods returned.”

“The gods?” she repeated.

“Yes,” Mahanon said. “Fe—” and he choked on air again, not quite a sob because he never let it become a sob. Three years had passed since Solas had taken his hand and left him a kiss and the betrayal still felt like a knife cutting him open. “Fen'Harel is still alive. And I failed. I failed to stop him.”

He never thought, if he had failed, that he would ever have the time to dwell on what that meant.

Keeper Istimaethoriel watched him a long moment before leaning forward, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, which he realized had begun to shake. “Your mind carries a heavy burden,” she whispered and he started to cry, because years had passed since he had seen his Keeper, after Cullen's soldiers had fumbled into a war zone and failed to save his clan. “One I have never seen in you before. I would say this was all a dream,” and he curled his arms around her, clinging. “If your face had not been practically bare this afternoon, if you did not carry yourself differently than I have ever seen.”

“I wish it all had been a dream,” Mahanon said. “If it had, I would be able to avoid to conclave. I would not feel the need to go.”

Keeper Istimaethoriel drew back, meeting his eyes. “Will you go again, knowing everything that happens?”

“I wish I didn't,” Mahanon said. “I wish I could run the opposite direction and never look back. But if I do not go—if he achieves his goal, if I do not steal the Mark from him—the world will end much sooner. There is a being that is going to use the conclave to try and rip open the Veil itself. I cannot let him do so.” He drew a deep breath and she wiped the corners of his eyes, gathering the tears there. “Last time it was all an accident. This time I mean to steal it on purpose, no matter what it may do to me.”

She cupped his face. “You always were a stubborn soul,” she said, smile fond. “Smart, and daring. That's why I had already decided to send you above all others. Should I not send more with you, to help you?”

“No,” Mahanon said, shaking his head. “Last time—no. Simply I shall go, as it had been.”

“And you're certain you did not wish to run from this destiny you do not seem eager to repeat?” she asked.

“No,” Mahanon said. “No, I wish I could run. What I'm walking back into will do its best to kill me. Last time I lost—I lost you, I lost my hand, I lost the world.” He pressed his mouth together as her expression turned sad. “But this time, I know what I'm walking into. I'm going to do better this time. I will change this.”

“Be careful child, if you do,” she said. “Something brought you back here, to start over, but you do not know what. Changing the future is always a risky business.”

“I've gotten very used to risky businesses,” he said and she leaned their foreheads together under the clear night sky, next to the rustling hallas.

Soon, no night would ever look the same.

-0-

Several times on the road to Haven he almost turned back and ran, despite all he had said before. Keeper Istimaethoriel had remained silent about their conversation, but everyone could see something had changed.

“Where did you even find this?” Tamven had asked, poking at his armor. “Certainly not while you were out hunting in the forest.”

“It is a fair gift the Keeper has given you on your journey,” Seros said, shaking his head. “Perhaps I should volunteer for the next mission.”

“You changed your vallaslin,” Ellana remarked, finally looking up from her books and studies to be the First. “There is something so different about you.”

“It is a long story,” Mahanon said, sitting beside her.

“When you come back will you have the time to tell it to me?” she asked, arching a brow at him.

“I hope someday to tell it to the Dalish,” Mahanon said and she frowned, because his voice had been too wistful and sad. But she had not pressed, and had been there to see him off on the road to Haven.

“You will need to blend in,” Keeper Istimaethoriel said, handing him a heavy cloak.

“Is that a remark about the flowers in my hair?” Mahanon asked, grinning with an ease he did not feel.

“It is more a remark about a metal I have never seen before,” she said. “Be careful. And come home to us.”

“I will do my hardest to do just that,” he whispered, accepting the cloak and starting on his journey with a heavy heart.

When he camped alone at night he would find himself staring at his hand, remembering the pain that had often driven him to his knees, that had almost killed him.

But arrive in Haven he did, cloak wrapped around him in such a way to hide his armor without, hopefully, looking too obvious.

He knew when to look away from the guards, when to slide around both mages and templars. At one point he spotted Cassandra from across a field and ducked quickly behind a merchant's wagon. He had timed his arrival to the night before the Breach opened, staying up all night to make sure he was hidden as close to position was he possibly could be without being found and questioned.

The margin of error sometimes made his skin crawl. He had to interrupt the ritual at exactly the same time, and hope that everything worked like it had before. Or he was just setting himself up for another painful death.

But then he stood in front of the door, listening to the Divine and—there was Corypheus' voice, and Mahanon threw the door open. “Let her go!” he yelled, thinking vaguely that Cassandra would probably find that much clearer than his previous, timid “And what's going on here?”

He didn't have any time to regret anything, to know if things had gone wrong or right until he woke up with a startle, Cassandra's sword pointed down at him and his hands chained.

“Ah,” he murmured, looking down at his hand, feeling the blaze of pain and flash of green light as the Breach pulsed. Once he stopped screaming, he almost started laughing. “Well then,” he murmured. “I guess that answers that.”

“Who are you?” Cassandra demanded and instead of remaining kneeling like he had before, Mahanon pushed himself to his feet, calmly meeting her gaze which only seemed to infuriate her more.

“There's not really time for that,” Mahanon said, feeling another pulse already building in his hand. “There's a hole in the sky, and you're going to need help closing it.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Cassandra stared at him before glancing at Leliana and back to Mahanon. “Excuse me?”

“Look, I understand why you put me in chains,” and Mahanon rattled his hands in his cuffs. “And I can't give you all the answers you want.” Once again his exact memories of what had happened seemed to be missing, probably locked away in the Fade, but he remembered what had happened the time before. Surely it couldn't have been so different. “But I know there's a hole in the sky because I fell out of it.”

“You were the only survivor of the entire Conclave, “Leliana said and she started to pace around him, Mahanon carefully not turning his head to follow her path. “You, and no one else. How did you survive, out of all those there?”

“I don't know,” Mahanon said. “I know—the Divine was in danger. There was someone hurting her. I tried to help and then—then all I remember is falling—I didn't hurt her,” Mahanon said, meeting Cassandra's eyes. “I didn't hurt the Divine. I swear to you, I was trying to save her.”

“You said someone was hurting her?” Leliana asked, behind him. “Who? How?”

“I don't remember,” Mahanon said, shaking his head slightly, even though he could hear Corypheus' laugh in his head, the cold way he drawled out his plans, the feel of his hand crushing Mahanon's wrist as Haven burned around them. “I just remember a shadow, and that she was calling for help.”

“That's exactly what sort of story someone would come up with if they had been behind the explosion!” Cassandra said, her sword still out.

“Yes,” Mahanon said, hands clenched in front of him. “I know why you can't believe me. I know,” and the side of his mouth twisted up, not a smile. “That the fact I'm an elf doesn't help either. There's nothing I can _say_ that will convince you of anything. I just want the chance to try and help, to prove to you that I mean what I say. And perhaps we'll both find some answers that way.”

Cassandra moved suddenly, grabbing him by the front of his armor and dragging him forward, sword in her other hand. “You are either very clever or very stupid.”

“I know,” Mahanon said, voice thick. “All I'm asking,” and he grit his teeth as his hand flared again, trying not to look away from Cassandra even as the pain felt like it was lighting all his nerves on fire. She stepped back and without the support he found his knees buckling, bending over his hand as he ground his teeth not to cry out.

“That mark is killing you,” Cassandra said.

“Yes,” Mahanon agreed wryly. He almost wanted to laugh, except he found none of this amusing. “I can feel it—it's getting worse with every pulse.”

“So is the Breach,” Leliana said, meeting Cassandra's gaze.

“If that mark is connected to the Breach—”

“Please,” Mahanon said, on his knees and unable to actually look at Cassandra. He could remember so many late nights with her, their wary respect that took months to earn, the friendship that took even longer to come. The way Cassandra's eyes burned when she handed him the sword of the Inquisitor. “I just want the chance to help.”

“You're very altruistic for a Dalish elf,” Cassandra said and Leliana shot her a quick look, like she wanted to say something but remained silent.

“There's a magic I don't understand killing me,” Mahanon said. “A hole in my memory and a hole in the sky. And you think I murdered the woman who meant everything to you. Altruism is not my highest motivation right now,” and he thought he heard Leliana give an amused snort, though he couldn't quite be sure.

“Everyone has already decided to blame you,” Cassandra said.

“But don't you want the real answer?” Mahanon asked. “If it wasn't me, that means your enemy is still out there, hiding from you.”

Cassandra twisted her hand in the straps holding his chest piece on, dragging him back to his feet. “Alright. Fine. You will do _everything_ you can to help us with the Breach and we shall see if there's any evidence of what you've said.”

“That's all I could ever ask you for.”

Cassandra gave him another narrow eyed look before barking out orders and dragging him outside. “These people, they're looking for someone to blame,” she said, Mahanon trailing after her as they walked outside. He didn't spare much of a look for the Breach, though Cassandra stopped to stare at it, still in awe of it.

“Funny how they found a convenient elf to pin that on,” Mahanon said, whereas the last time he had been too confused and disoriented to say much to her at all.

“You think that's why they're blaming you?”

“Surely you can't be surprised it's part of it,” Mahanon said, as people he would later call friend gave him narrowed eyed and angry looks. Swallowing, he focused on Cassandra's back.

“You were the only survivor,” she said, clearly annoyed at him and Mahanon suppressed a smile. The only person who seemed to annoy Cassandra more than he did was Varric. “It doesn't help that your armor is so strange either,” and Mahanon glanced down at the shifting green veilquartz.

“It didn't use to look like this,” he lied. “I think being in the Fade—it might have changed it.”

That caught her attention and she turned. “Are you certain?”

“No,” Mahanon said, shaking his head. “I'm not certain of much right now except that I didn't destroy the conclave.”

They stopped, on the steps outside Haven and sometimes Mahanon thought he forgot the strange light the Breach threw everything into. But every night in his dreams he seemed to find himself standing under it again so really, it felt almost natural to be here. “If you have no memory, how can you be really certain you did not do it?”

“Honestly?” Mahanon asked. “What would I gain, Lady Cassandra? A Dalish elf, sent by my clan so we would understand the decision made here, and whether it would make our lives even more difficult. We're already barely coexisting with the humans, and we're friendlier than most clans. How stupid would I have to _be_ to commit an act like this? By the simple fact that you've accused me my clan and countless others are already in danger. I would have gained _nothing_ from this act and lost perhaps everything.”

He stopped, sucking in a breath, because at least his innocence had been proven quickly enough that was not the reason his clan had been massacred. Some days that had helped, and others it had done nothing at all.

He had planted a tree in Skyhold for them, and Blackwall had helped him tend to it.

Cassandra watched him, and the citizens of Haven were still glaring at him, and Breach still in the sky and he took another breath. “We would not harm your people—”

“Don't be stupid,” Mahanon said. “The Dalish walk a knife edge every day. If one of us committed a crime, others would pay for it.”

Cassandra watched him, until another pulse from the Breach knocked him sideways for a moment, but it passed quicker than some of the others. “We should move quickly,” Cassandra said, turning away and Mahanon followed at her heels.

It didn't take them long to find the demons either.

Somehow Mahanon had forgotten them falling through the bridge as it was destroyed, rolling down onto the ice below. Cassandra was already charging the demons and Mahanon took a moment to look around, spotting a sword propped up near some crates, its owner a huddled mass not too far away. Without thinking, he grabbed the sword, swinging it around in a wide arc, a movement he must have made a thousand times, in the past, when he'd had both hands to fight with.

“Drop the sword!” Cassandra yelled, turning to face him after they had dispatched the demons. “Drop the sword or—”

“Listen,” Mahanon said, carefully pointing the tip of the sword down and holding out his left hand. It brought him up short again, to have a second hand. He curled the fingers into a fist and breathed. “Listen, we're about to go through a valley filled with _demons_. It's not that I don't trust your skills as a warrior because they are impressive, but we will go faster if we work together. I could have run,” and he gestured behind himself. “Here and now, while you were fighting, and I didn't.”

“You're a good fighter,” Cassandra said, sword still up and wary.

“I've had to protect many people in my life,” Mahanon said.

Slowly Cassandra lowered the sword. “You are correct,” she said, unhappily. “You could have run.”

“And I didn't,” Mahanon said. “And I won't. But it is dangerous, and I won't go like an animal to slaughter.”

Cassandra finally nodded. “Alright, we fight together.”

Mahanon let out a breath, and looked down at the sword he carried. He realized his hands were shaking so he focused on sheathing the sword instead of dwelling on the hard years he spent, learning to fight with only one hand instead of the two handed style he had slipped back into like a comfortable uniform.

He focused on Cassandra again, as they fought their way through the valley, rather than the reminder of all Solas had taken from him. He became so lost in the rhythm of battle, and remembering how to fight like the old days that when he finally spotted a rift he automatically started cutting down the demons in his path to get into the best position to close it.

Mahanon lifted his hand as the last demon fell with an arrow through its face, feeling the mark flare when Solas reached a hand out.

And it came crashing down on him all at once that Solas stood beside him.

“You must—”

“Do not touch me!” he said, yanking his arm away, as Solas' fingertips brushed the air.

For a second there was silence as Mahanon stood there, leaning away from Solas with his left hand braced against his chest and his sword in his right hand pointing down, Solas standing with his hand out and the rift still glowing an angry green in front of them.

“I did not mean,” Solas started.

“It's,” Mahanon started, and he felt like he couldn't breath, his chest tight as he stared at Solas. He wanted to reach out with both hands and wrap them around his throat. He wanted to demand answers. He wanted to fall to his knees and beg Solas to see him as a person, a thriving, living person who wasn't a shadow of some lost glory.

He wanted to drag Solas to him and kiss the air out of his mouth, because he had missed him, despite everything.

“It's fine,” Mahanon finally said.

“I was just,” Solas said, still clearly thrown. “Going to say that you might be able to use the mark to close these rifts—”

“Yes,” Mahanon agreed, still breathless. He had been halfway through the motion of doing exactly that without remembering that he wasn't supposed to know how.

“I was simply going to show you—” Solas said but Mahanon raised his hand instead, throwing the mark at the rift, anchoring it there, and yanking his hand back to close the rift between realities.

“So you can close them,” Solas said softly, still staring at him.

“What was that all about?” Cassandra asked, walking over, Varric trailing after her, holding Bianca in his arms and Mahanon felt his chest tighten even further.

“Was it because I'm an apostate or because I do not carry the trappings of the Dalish?” Solas asked, wry, and Mahanon could clock the exact moment Solas seemed to recognize the material of his armor, his brows dipping down for the barest second.

“It is because you approached me in the middle of battle,” Mahanon said. “I do not suggest trying to grab one of my hands when I need it to fight.”

Solas considered him, head tipped back, eyes flickering over him before he inclined his head. “I regret the imprudence of my action.”

“It's fine,” Mahanon said, but he realized too late he was still tilted away from Solas, and he hadn't taken his eyes off him yet. Fine was obviously the furthest thing from his mind.

“Well, I for one am thrilled to meet you,” Varric said. “Because anyone who can help fix this is a great guy in my opinion. I'm Varric Tethras, rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong, and this is Bianca,” and he gestured to his cross bow.

“Good to meet both of you,” Mahanon said, almost serious and he finally forced himself to look away from Solas.

“Is that directed at me or his crossbow?” Solas asked.

“Well I haven't been introduced to you yet,” Mahanon said, and he had only looked away from Solas when he found his eyes back on him, his chest twisting painfully all over again.

“Very well,” Solas said. “I am Solas, a wandering apostate who Cassandra pressed into service.”

“We needed to know about the mark on his hand,” Cassandra said.

“Mahanon,” Mahanon said, and he bit the inside of his cheek, trying to make himself focus. “Of Clan Lavellan.”

Solas watched him almost as intently as Mahanon was watching him. “Well, it's good to meet you. I am pleased you are still alive, and that my theory of the mark you carry was correct. You can close the rifts.”

“What he really means to say here is that he's thankful we're not going to be ass deep in demons forever, _and_ that he kept that mark from killing you in your sleep," Varric said, clearly amused by something he saw. 

Mahanon licked his lips and took another breath, because he was still breathing. There was no blood in his lungs. “Thank you,” he said, Solas inclining his head.

“I only hope that it might be able to help with the Breach,” Solas said. “One of my theories was correct but—”

“Well, we should go test out if the other one was too,” Mahanon said and forced himself to turn around and expose his back to Solas.

Still no blow came and he was still breathing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mahanon is already very tired and carrying around far more ptsd than even his is prepared for


	3. Chapter 3

Mahanon kept walking, staying in the front of the group. Behind him, he heard Solas tell Cassandra that no mage could have created the Mark, and her murmur acknowledgment.

“You seem rather hell bent on moving forward,” Varric remarked, and Mahanon had forgotten how often Varric showed up at his elbow when they were traveling together.

“If I have any chance of closing the Breach, I'd like to take it as quickly as possible,” Mahanon said.

“You did pretty well against the rift back there,” Varric said.

“Yes,” Mahanon agreed, because he had closed so many rifts over the years that it had felt like the most natural thing he had done since he woke up under the stars and surrounded by his clan.

“So I'm sure you'll do fine,” Varric said.

“The Breach is much bigger,” Mahanon remarked, because last time he had tried to close it by himself he had been unconscious for days. He wondered if the same thing would happen again or if his experience was going to make any sort of difference.

“Sure, but,” Varric started when a shade reared up in front of them. “Ah, shit.”

Mahanon was halfway through cutting the shade in half when he remembered Varric had never fought with him before, and he couldn't trust anyone with his back. He pivoted cleanly, slamming his sword into the face of another shade, and his breathing had barely changed before all four of them were disposed of.

“That was impressive,” Solas remarked, behind him, and Cassandra was giving him another look again, appraising his skill with a blade and whether that increased his likelihood of having torn open the Veil itself.

“I've fought battles before,” he said, sheathing his sword and Varric poked the rags that the shades had left behind.

“Against demons?” Solas asked.

“The Dalish often dwell in forest with shades of all sorts,” Mahanon said, remembering the stories of the clans who traveled in the Brecilian Forest.

“Indeed,” Solas said after a moment.

“We should hurry,” Mahanon said, considering the sky and how long it had been since the last pulse had driven him to the ground.

“Agreed,” Cassandra said, shouldering the way ahead, Mahanon following and Solas still behind him. He could feel his shoulder blades itch.

“You are very far from your clan, despite being, as you said, Dalish,” Solas said and Mahanon wanted to snarl at him.

“And what do you know of the Dalish anyway?” he snapped.

“I have wandered many roads, and crossed paths with them,” Solas said and Mahanon wanted to laugh.

“And considering the tone of your voice, I assume that meeting went well then, did it?” Mahanon asked and Varric choked on air instead to hold back what sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

“I was only trying to share my knowledge but they would rather attack me due to their own suspicious nature—”

“Oh yes, because what the Dalish appreciate most is an outsider explaining our own heritage to us,” Mahanon said, and he turned his head in time to see Solas brows shoot up. “You'd be surprised how often that happens. Everyone has an opinion on my people and our beliefs and how we live our lives. We would do anything for more knowledge of our past, yes, but are distrustful of any source we can't verify ourselves. Too many times our history has been twisted to hurt us.”

“And I used to wonder why elves didn't get along with each other,” Varric muttered and Mahanon felt his mouth twist. Before he could reply another pulse went out, and he collapsed to his knees.

“Shit, are you alright?” Varric asked, kneeling beside him.

“My magic cannot stop the expansion of your mark,” Solas said, hanging back and Cassandra turned around. “We should continue to hurry before it consumes you.”

“Such a sweet talker,” Mahanon said through his gritted teeth.

Solas twitched back as the pain finally stopped, leaving Mahanon bowed over for a moment. “You should—” Varric started.

“No,” Mahanon said, taking a breath before pushing himself back to his feet. “I'm fine.”

“Yeah, you look real fine,” Varric muttered and Mahanon knew he was staggering as he walked forward but it didn't matter because at least he was moving forward. He wasn't entirely certain it had hurt this much last time or if this time it was somehow worse, like an echo of the pain of the Mark as it had destabilized and almost killed him.

Mahanon shook his head and pressed on, through the rest of the valley and up the long stairs to the forward camp, concentrating only on moving. He slowed when he heard the sounds of Leliana and Roderick fighting, allowing Cassandra to surpass him as she rushed into the the argument.

Folding his arms he listened to them bicker, because somehow in all the years that had passed he had allowed the annoyance at Roderick to fade. He remembered instead the injured man leading his people out of Haven, of Dorian quietly telling him the man's last words.

All of that had allowed him to forget what an _ass_ the man was.

“Look,” he snapped, when Roderick demanded for the third time he be taken to Val Royeaus for trial. “Closing the Breach is what matters right now. If it's not closed I won't even live long enough to stand trial so if you want to happen you're going to have to let me at least try and close the fucking thing.”

Roderick whirled on him and Mahanon found his brow twitching up. “ _You_ are the one who brought this on us in the first place!”

“Like hell I did,” Mahanon said, arms still crossed over his chest.

“I thought your line was that you didn't remember what happened,” Roderick said.

“I think I would remember having the power to do something like this,” Mahanon said. “Or the motivation. As I have neither I'm not really sure how exactly I could have done this and forgotten.”

“You're simply lying—” Mahanon bit the inside of his cheek rather than reply to that. “It doesn't matter. Our position here is hopeless anyway. Seeker, call a retreat.”

“No,” Cassandra snapped. “We have to stop this before it becomes to late.”

“And how exactly are you going to do that?” Roderick asked. “You'll never survive long enough to even reach the Temple, no matter how many soldiers you throw at the path.”

“We simply go,” Cassandra said, with all the conviction she carried around with her anywhere.

“He may be right that charging the temple is too dangerous,” Leliana said. “We could take the mountain path while our forces cause a distraction.”

“We already lost a patrol on that path and have heard nothing from them,” Cassandra said. “It's too dangerous.”

This time when the Breach pulsed Mahanon didn't fall to his knees, though he did lean over, gasping for breath. Everyone turned to him as he slowly straightened.

“How do you think we should proceed?” Cassandra asked after a beat.

“You're asking _me_?” Mahanon asked.

Cassandra twisted her mouth in annoyance. “You're the one we have to protect long enough to even reach the Breach. You might as well decide the path we take.”

“We take the pass,” Mahanon said without a moment of hesitation. “If there's even a chance of saving In—” he cut himself off quickly, realizing his mistake. “Anyone, than we take it. That squad might still be up there.”

Everyone paused long enough to stare at him, Cassandra in obvious surprise but there was something glimmering in Solas' expression that looked like approval. “Leliana, get everyone you have into that valley,” Cassandra said and suddenly everyone was moving, a plan decided on and Mahanon turned his gaze up to the mountains.

-0-

“You seemed very set on saving those soldiers,” Solas said, as they walked up the side of the mountain.

“They don't deserve to be abandoned to their fate,” Mahanon said.

“Still, it is... admirable, to consider saving others by taking the longer route, considering how little time you have and how any delay has the potential to put you in even more excruciating pain,” Solas said.

Mahanon felt his chest tighten again, focusing on the ladder in front of him instead of replying. Once they had scaled the ladder, and were waiting for Cassandra, he looked over at Solas again. “I'm not doing this to be admired.”

“And yet it is a symptom of your actions,” Solas said and Mahanon turned away again.

-0-

They found and rescued half of the patrol up in the mountains, closing another rift in the process before heading back down the mountain and into the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Leliana and Cullen were both by the front, having fought their way there through the valley.

“You made it,” Leliana said, relief evident in her voice. “Thank the Maker.”

“Yes,” Cassandra said and turned to Mahanon. “Well, then, this is your chance to end this and prove your innocence. Are you ready?”

Mahanon slowly lifted his gaze up to where the Breach was high in the sky. “Sure,” he said. “I'll just climb up some non existent ladder, shall I?”

“It won't be nearly that dramatic,” Solas said. “There's a rift at the bottom of the Breach. That one is first. If you close that one, we may seal the Breach in the process.”

“Well I have been getting in some good rift closing practice,” Mahanon said. “Let's go.”

“Careful,” Cassandra said as they entered the Temple, Leliana staying behind to command the soldiers to take up positions around the Temple. As they walked around, carefully looking for a way down to the angrily pulsing rift, a voice boomed out over them. “Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice.”

Mahanon bit his cheek hard to hear the voice of Corypheus.

“What are we hearing?” Cassandra asked, behind him as he found a mostly intact staircase and started inching his way down.

“At a guess, whoever created the Breach,” Solas said and Mahanon ignored them, jumping down to the next level and turning a corner to find red lyrium jutting forth from the broken stones of the temple floor. He felt Varric recoil as he came around the corner.

“You know this stuff is _red lyrium_ , Seeker? What's it doing here?” The pain was so clear in his voice Mahanon winced, even as Solas started throwing out some sort of explanation that probably wasn't true.

Above them, Corypheus' voice boomed out again. “Keep the sacrifice still.”

“Someone help me!” a new voice begged and Cassandra came to a shakey halt. “That's the voice of Divine Justinia!”

Jumping down to the ground of the temple, Mahanon's hand flared again as another echo started. “Someone help me!”

“Let her go!” a new voice said and Cassandra's head whipped around to him.

“That's your voice,” she said.

“Yes,” Mahanon agreed.

“The most Holy called out to you,” Cassandra said. “Begging you for help. And you tried to protect her.”

The Mark flared again as a ghostly image appeared in front of them, a shadow standing in front of the confined Divine, and Mahanon standing between them, his eyes wide.

“Run while you can!” the Divine begged. “Warn them!”

“Kill the elf,” Corypheus said, the shadow turning toward the vaguely outlined Mahanon as the vision disappeared.

“You _were_ there!” Cassandra said, rounding on Mahanon. “But who was the shadow? Who attacked her? Is this vision—”

“Seeker,” Varric started.

“What are we seeing?” Cassandra demanded.

“I don't remember what happened,” Mahanon said. “I don't even know what this is—”

“The Fade has bleed into this place,” Solas said, interrupting both of them. “It shows echoes of what happened here, right before it was torn apart.”

“That tells us nothing!” Cassandra said.

“It tells us he didn't attack the Divine,” Varric said, gesturing to Mahanon. “That's a lot of something.”

“If we can trust such a vision,” Cassandra said.

“The Fade is unlikely to create a vision that was not true,” Solas said and Mahanon arched a brow at him. “At any rate, this rift is closed, but not sealed. You will have to reopen it to try and close it properly.”

“Right,” Mahanon said, bracing himself. “I hope everyone is ready,” and he looked pointedly at Cassandra who narrowed her eyes at him before drawing her sword.

“Of course we are ready,” she said, as the soldiers under Leliana's orders braced themselves around the temple.

“Alright, there are going to be demons,” Mahanon said. “So I hope you're not just saying that.” Before Cassandra could respond again he threw the Mark out, blasting the rift open and allowing a pride demon to step through with a booming laugh.

Mahanon fell back into the battle, occasionally disrupting the rift's energy, weakening the demon each time, even as more shades poured out behind it. He forgot that he had barely fought with these people before, cutting down the shades that got too close to Solas automatically and expecting Solas to watch his own back in turn.

The somewhat shocking thing was, that Solas was watching his back, knowing a shade back with a blast of ice that startled Mahanon with how close it passed him by.

“Now!” Solas yelled as the pride demon fell, Cassandra's sword sticking through one of its eyes. “Close the rift!” and Mahanon already had his hand up, halfway through the motion before Solas had started speaking.

And that was the last thing Mahanon remembered as he collapsed, the green energy of the rift falling around him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this chapter had to stick sorta closely to the script... but it needed to happen pretty much exactly as it did so eh.
> 
> Mahanon meanwhile is 100% done with anyone saying anything about the Dalish, especially Solas. It's only going to get more annoying from here, poor thing.


	4. Chapter 4

Mahanon woke up, blinking at the ceiling of the little cabin in Haven and he curled his hands into fists to keep from screaming. They would hear outside and come running after all.

He pushed himself up, intending to get out of bed before he realized he had woken up at the _exact_ same time as he had before as the elven servant yelped and dropped the box she was carrying. “Oh shit—” he started.

“I'm sorry! I didn't realize you were awake!” she said, dropping to her knees and Mahanon felt his stomach twist in old, exhausted anger.

Mahanon's mouth twisted and he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. When he tried to stand, he wavered, catching himself on the side table. “It's fine,” he murmured, righting himself, but she wasn't looking at him.

“I beg your forgiveness and your blessing—”

“No,” Mahanon said, swaying again before he righted and knelt down in front of her. “Please, don't. You don't have to bow to anyone, least of all me.”

“But you have been blessed, and you are to save us—”

“I know,” Mahanon said, quiet and knew his legend would only continue to grow from this moment but already sick at the idea of anyone kneeling to him. “Blessed or not, I do not wish to be bowed to. I am but one of you, sent to protect and save the people, every one of them, including yourself.”

“But,” and she lifted her head, Mahanon giving her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “You are special.”

“Everyone is special in their own way,” Mahanon said, and he put his hands on her shoulders, rising and urging her up with him. “Be strong, da'len.”

Her brows twitched in confusion at the elven word but she nodded. “If... if you say so.”

“I do,” Mahanon said, squeezing her shoulders one more time before stepping back.

“Oh,” she said, slapping a hand over her mouth before dropping it just as quickly. “I forgot! Lady Cassandra wanted to see you the moment you woke up. Immediately, she said!”

“Yes,” Mahanon sighed and glanced around. Last time his armor had been taken, with a new set left in its place and he hoped that had not happened again. “Where is my armor?”

“Oh, oh, it's here,” she said and pulled a chest out, flipping it open. “We heard it had been touched by your journey into the Fade. I and another worked on cleaning it for you, we had to fend people away from it! They all wanted a piece of it for themselves, something touched by Andraste's Herald!”

Mahanon's brows twitched in alarm, because that armor had been with him for years now but she pulled out the breast piece and that at least was still in one perfect piece so he let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. “Thank you,” he said, with all the sincerity he could muster. “That armor means a lot to me.”

She beamed at him before setting it down on the bed and rustling through the front room. “However! The sword you had was simply subpar, so Harritt fashioned you a new one!”

“I shall have to go and thank him,” Mahanon said.

She flushed, and Mahanon realized he had never asked her what her name was. Opening his mouth to ask, she cut him off. “But the seeker was very firm you come at once! I must—” and she bolted from the hut, probably to tell everyone he was awake. Mahanon stared after her a moment before he sighed and started slowly putting his armor on. It was easier now that he had both hands than it had been the last several years. Dagna and Harritt had worked with him as much as possible, to adapt it to his situation but he had almost always needed help.

There had been mornings where he had sat down and sobbed bitterly even as Cassandra tied the Ardent Blossom over his hair, because Solas had taken so much from him. Solas and his foolish plan to hand Corypheus the orb, Solas and his pity when he kissed Mahanon and took his hand away from him, even as they both cried, Solas and the world crashing around them—

He slammed his fist into the wall, breathing hard. Rubbing his right hand over his face, he took a few deep breaths before reaching out and picking the Ardent Blossom up.

Perhaps he should have listened to what that damned cave had said all those years ago, Solas standing beside him and questioning why exactly they were offering flowers to a tiny cave.

 _"Pulling back the curtain. Let the light in. Let it burn._ _He'll remake the world to suit his desires. His chosen to reign.”_

Mahanon shook his head, adjusting his armor one more time before swiping at his eyes, in case any tears had escaped, and squared his shoulders. He flung open the door to the citizens of Haven watching him, several bowing, and more saluting him.

“The Herald of Andraste!” swept through the crowd, people calling to their friends, and some of them reached out like they might want to touch him but not quite ever daring to touch him.

“That's him! That's the Herald of Andraste! They said when he came out of the Fade, Andraste herself was watching over him!”

“Bless you,” another said as he kept walking, past the crowds of people who had come out to see him. They all murmured, and craned to get a closer look and he marched on like he was marching into battle. They wanted to see him, and he knew by now how to at least be seen.

But when he finally entered the Chantry, his shoulders sagged and he took a moment to gather himself again, already hearing Roderick and Cassandra arguing behind the heavy door at the end of the hallway. Another breath and he pushed the door open, walking past the two soldiers standing there

Roderick demanded he be taken for trial again, and Cassandra yelled about his foolishness and Mahanon only crossed his arms over his shifting green armor and watched them both, Leliana standing to one side looking almost as annoyed as Mahanon actually felt.

“Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps they died with the others—or have allies who yet live,” Leliana snapped.

“ _I_ am a suspect?” Roderick asked, head whipping around to stare at her.

“Among many others.”

“But not _him_ ,” Roderick said, throwing a hand toward Mahanon.

“The Divine called to him for help,” Cassandra said. “I heard the voices in the temple. She would not if he had been in one the plot.”

“So what you're saying—the thing on his hand, his survival—those are all just a coincidence?”

“Providence,” Cassandra said firmly and Mahanon sucked in a breath, trying to keep it quiet. “The Maker sent him to us.”

“An elf,” Roderick asked and Mahanon closed his eyes.

“You think I'm a chosen one,” he said, softly, but it brought the other three up short, who seemed to have forgotten he was actually standing there. “You think I've been sent by your creator to save you in a dark hour.”

Cassandra stared at him, and Mahanon recognized the determination in her face. “No matter what you are, or what you believe, you are exactly what we needed when we needed it.”

“Seeker, this is madness,” Roderick protested.

“I may not know what sort of savior I am,” Mahanon said, arms still crossed and he wondered even now if he might still have time to run away. Take the Mark and hid with the Clans in the mountains, leave the world to burn behind him, rather than do it all again.”But I will do my best to protect. I will do my best to _actually_ close the Breach, properly. I will not back down from this duty, so long as this mark is on my hand and so long as I draw breath.”

Roderick was clearly thrown by that but Cassandra's eyes were practically burning as she watched him. “I believe you.”

“Good,” Mahanon said. “I would have hated to waste a perfectly good speech like that,” and her brow twitched up, almost amused.

Roderick blustered again. “This is madness. I will not allow—”

“This isn't for you to allow,” Leliana said as Cassandra lifted a book and slammed it down on the table, declaring it a writ to rebuild the Inquisition of old and Mahanon closed his eyes, knowing all that was to come.

-0-

Later, after the Inquisition had been declared, Mahanon sat on the edge of a stone bulwark, chin in his hand and knowing that so many feet away, to his left, was Solas, hidden now by some of Haven's huts. But he tried to focus on the fires burning not to far below him instead of that.

How could he even approach Solas now? The thought of listening to his stories of the Fade twisted his stomach, but he wasn't even certain how they became friends the first time, without Solas' wandering stories.

“You look sorta terrible for the chosen of destiny,” Varric remarked, coming up beside him and Mahanon felt the corner of his mouth twitch up. “Shouldn't you be striding around, throwing that new found weight around or something?”

“I think you have me confused with someone else,” Mahanon said and instantly regretted it, because Hawke was far away at this time, and not by Varric's side and Varric had no way to know that situation would be only occasional instead for the rest of their lives.

“Don't heroes all act the same?”

Mahanon took a breath and lifted his head, turning to Varric. “I rarely live up to expectations.”

“I don't know about that,” Varric said, sitting down beside him. “You managed to even stabilized the Breach, which is a pretty big deal.”

Mahanon looked down at his hand before back up to the sky. “I suppose so.”

“That was giving you a lot of grief not too long ago,” Varric said, pointing to his hand. “Treating you any better now?”

“Yes,” Mahanon said. “With the Breach stabilized, it is too. It isn't growing anymore, I don't think.”

“So that's good,” Varric said. “And everyone had heard about Cassandra and Roderick by now. So why do you look so glum?”

Mahanon looked at the sky again, the Breach swirling in the clouds, and Solas stood not too far away, and all he could taste was blood. “A few days ago, I died,” he whispered. “And then I woke up.”

Varric's hand landed warm and heavy on his shoulder, squeezing. “You didn't die! I mean, I sorta see how you thought maybe you had, trying to close the Breach like that, but,” and without warning, Mahanon let himself fold up and collapse into Varric, surprising him.

“I'm sorry,” he murmured. “I just—”

“Hey, there,” Varric said, and he accepted his armful of Mahanon gracefully. “I get it. It's been a crazy few days for all of us, but for you especially. From prisoner to Herald, I mean that's a fast turn around,” and Mahanon almost managed a chuckle. He knew that what he had said could have been misconstrued by Varric, which is why he had allowed himself to say it. But somehow just getting the words out felt like a weight off his chest.

“Thank you,” he murmured, and pushed himself back upright, squaring his shoulders again because he knew if he stayed too long looking weak, people would notice, and new rumors would start again.

Varric nodded again. “Hey, as I said, it's been a mad few days. I mean, have you even heard anything from your family yet?”

“No,” Mahanon said. “It will be a while yet, probably.”

“Do you miss them?” Varric asked, a little more softly, and Mahanon wanted to turn to him then and there and tell him he wouldn't be away from his family forever. Someday, he would return to Kirkwall, and someday Hawke would blow in like the wind too, his face lined and his cloak torn, and that another someday Isabella and Merrill would drop anchor, and that Kirkwall was home to all of them still, Fenris running escaped slaves through Kirkwall's streets and Aveline would be standing there, shaking her head at all of them.

Mahanon wasn't certain Varric would want to hear that someday, when things were dire and the sky was dark, even Anders would crawl out of the shadows again, and it would take only one truly beseeching look from Hawke for Varric to cave and offer him his hand again, before they all went and tried to save the world _again_.

But that was years and battles in the future and Mahanon wondered what had happened to them all in the end. If anyone had survived past that moment, when he had fallen at Solas' feet.

“I miss the life I led with my Clan,” Mahanon settled on instead, because he had been watching Varric too intently, remembering too much. “I miss waking up under the stars, I miss the sound of the Halla. I miss the comradely of living with your Clan and knowing you all always have each other's backs.”

He looked over Haven again, the fire cackling in front of him and the tents already going up around the inside of the city. Soon, there would be even more tents outside, the start of an army.

“But this,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “This is my home now, for the foreseeable future.”

“Sometimes home is what we make it,” Varric said softly and Mahanon hung his head before forcing it back up.

“Yes,” he agreed.

“Well,” Varric said. “It's good to know that someone can turn their fortunes around so quickly and still be optimistic.”

“Oh yeah,” Mahanon said. “Optimistic, that's me.”

Varric grinned at him and Mahanon had a moment where he felt like he could do this. He could live these years all over again without going mad, and he could look at Solas without seeing his death, he could and would save everyone he could and in the end, he might even be able to change the course of destiny.

“Excuse me,” he said, standing. “I—there's something I should go talk to.”

“Yeah, of course,” Varric said, as if he _knew_ somehow as Mahanon marched himself across the few feet that separated him from—

“The Herald of Andraste,” Solas said, as he approached and Mahanon stopped dead. “A blessing to save us all.”

He was never going to be able to do this.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not 100% certain on my use of da'len here, but I felt like he would be using a Dalish word of some sort and that seemed the most fitting of the honorifics I could find.
> 
> Meanwhile, I am /very/ emotional about the three years I gave the timeline between the end of Trespasser and the final battle Mahanon has with Solas. I have so many ideas about what happened then when Mahanon sought out people to help him fight Solas, but also I refuse to believe the Kirkwall crew like, never got back together. You don't get to take my found family away from me like that, Bioware. (Minus, perhaps, Sebastian, who is off singing "we are never ever getting back together" because Anders is there)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway I figured out how to take screenshots of my xbox so [here is Mahanon](http://victoriousscarf.tumblr.com/post/170604738887/so-i-finally-figured-out-how-to-take-screenshots)

Mahanon stared at Solas a moment far too long, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth. “I'm not a chosen one, here to save everyone,” he said, voice soft and the Breach threw all of Haven into a sickly green light. “You seem angry.”

“Do I?” Solas asked. “You are the one who rejected me.” And he gestured toward the valley, where they first met.

“I told you, it was because you surprised me,” Mahanon said. “Besides, that can't be all of it. You are offended because of the title they've given me.”

Solas arched a brow at him before turning around. “I've traveled deep into the Fade,” he said, and Mahanon crossed his arms over his chest. “The dreams of lost civilizations—”

“You think already to judge me by the past?” Mahanon asked, tipping his chin back.

“I have seen countless heroes,” Solas said, turning back around. “You'll have to indulge me, to ask what kind you will be.”

Mahanon opened his mouth, and found it hanging there. “What kind of hero I will be,” he repeated. “I wasn't even aware I was going to be a hero.”

“But you have a gift, a gift none other has, a unique position,” Solas said.

“And since I have acquired this unique gift, I have spent days asleep,” Mahanon said. “You have had much longer to get used to the idea than I have.”

He didn't even feel guilty, lying to Solas.

That seemed to bring Solas up short for a moment, before he tilted his head. “You are correct. I have spent hours by your bed side, watching and pondering the mark. I suppose I had not considered how abrupt this must seem to you.” They watched each other. “Be that as it may, don't most children dream of being heroes?”

“And you think those dreams influence how they might act as adults?” Mahanon asked.

“You are avoiding the question.”

“I find it arrogant for you to have asked,” Mahanon snapped, and Solas looked at him in surprise. “It—To be a hero is also to carry a burden. It feels heavy, already. I want to be the hero that helps people, the one who stands for those who cannot fight. I want to be the hero remembered kindly—but even if I become the hero of this tale that people will tell someday, we can't really control the way people remember us, can we?” and he remembered the stories of Fen'Harel holding himself in the corners of the world, giggling.

“No,” Solas said, slowly, considering him intently. “We cannot chose how we will be remembered.”

Mahanon looked away. “I did not set out to become a hero.”

“Few do,” Solas said. There was a moment of silence. “Very well,” he said, and Mahanon was looking at the Breach instead of him. “I will stay.” Mahanon snapped his gaze back, obviously alarmed. “Unless you do not wish me to. I am, after all, an apostate—”

“I do not want you to leave,” Mahanon said, too quickly, with too much force and Solas' brows went straight up.

“I admit I am surprised by that.”

Mahanon felt panic curl in his stomach. He knew Solas would not really leave—not until later—as long as he thought the Inquisition would be the best chance to reclaim his orb. “You,” he started and swallowed hard. He should have stayed with Varric, by the fire. “You could be—the aid you could offer—it would be foolish not to ask you to stay.”

“I'm an apostate mage surrounded by Chantry forces and unlike you I do not have a divine mark protecting me. You must understand my caution.”

“But you came here to help,” Mahanon said. “You _have_ helped. You kept the person with that divine mark alive,” and Mahanon would not understand truly what that meant until later. “I will not let them use that against you.”

Solas looked amused for a moment. “And how would you stop them?”

“By any means I had at my disposal,” Mahanon said, more viciously than he meant to and Solas rocked back slightly, looking Mahanon up and down.

“Thank you,” he said, sounding confused. “I—you are very unexpected. Perhaps I did misjudge your reaction earlier.”

“I have no ill way to mages, or elves who are not Dalish,” Mahanon said. “That's what you asked me, when I first met you. Neither of those things bothers me.”

“But I do bother you,” Solas said. “Somehow.”

“You remind me of someone else I knew, once,” Mahanon said. “It is—not personal. I will strive to do better.”

He turned, intending to go, crawl back inside his hut and hold himself together as he tried to fall apart, but Solas stopped him. “This person,” he said, and Mahanon turned back around. “They hurt you, didn't they?”

“Is it so obvious as that?” Mahanon asked.

“In some ways,” Solas said.

“Yes,” Mahanon said. “He lied to me, betrayed me, and took something that mattered a great deal from me.” He shrugged, trying to look like he wasn't drowning just looking at Solas.

“Betrayal always hurts, doesn't it?” Solas asked, standing in the wind under the light of the Breach.

“Yes,” Mahanon said, the word tasting like ash in his mouth.

-0-

He woke up slowly the next morning, having tossed and turned all night, making a tangled mess of the sheets. Today, the banners of the Inquisition would be going up around Haven, and by the evening he would probably be on his way to the Hinterlands after being introduced to the new council that would run the operations of the new council.

He lay there for another long moment, staring at the ceiling.

“I can't do this,” he whispered, before closing his eyes again and breathing.

Slowly, he pushed himself up, stretched out his sore muscles, and methodically strapped his armor back on. By the time he stepped outside to be met by Cassandra, there was no doubt in his expression or posture.

“It is good to see you awake,” Cassandra said.

Mahanon glanced up at the sky. “I had not realized how late it had gotten.”

Cassandra shrugged slightly, like she might allow his sluggishness, all things considered. “Come, there is much to do this morning.”

Mahanon nodded, falling into step beside her. “The Breach and Mark have become stable,” he said.

“Yes,” Cassandra said, pleased. “However, the Breach is still not closed. I spoke to Solas this morning, and he believes that if we can power the Mark up, a second attempt should be successful.”

“Power up?” Mahanon asked, arching his brow.

“Causing the Breach required a considerable amount of energy,” Cassandra said. “We shall have to find a way to create the same amount of energy, and channel it through your mark.”

“Oh that sounds like fun,” Mahanon said. “I mean, what harm could possibly come from powering up something we barely understand?”

“You have a sense of humor,” Cassandra said dryly.

“It comes through on occasion,” Mahanon said.

“You should hold onto that,” Cassandra said as they reached the door of the Chantry and Mahanon stood there a second too long.

“I'll try,” he said, softly, before following her inside.

He let her introduce him to Cullen and Josephine and Leliana, inclining his head. “You all have an impressive bunch of titles. I hope those titles have helped you come up with a plan.”

“We appear to have several plans so far,” Josephine said. “We know we must find some way to power up the Mark, we simply cannot agree on how.”

“I believe we should approach the rebel mages,” Leliana said, shooting a quick look at Cullen as he immediately opened his mouth.

“And I disagree. The Templars—”

After a moment of bickering, Josephine interrupted them. “Not that either group is willing to talk to us at all yet. The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition, and you, specifically.”

“Well that didn't take them long at all, did it?” Mahanon asked. “I mean, I can't blame them. An elf with magic they don't understand and a threat in the sky. I mean, who wouldn't want to jump to conclusions about that?”

“I think it has as much to do with what people are starting to call you,” Josephine said. “You—a Dalish elf—are being called the Herald of Andraste, and that frightened the Chantry. The remaining clerics have declared it blasphemy and we heretics for harboring you.”

“The Chantry rather does like throwing around the idea of heretics,” Mahanon said, voice dry. Before Cassandra could protest, he held a hand up. “Alright, but _how_ exactly am I the Herald of Andraste? I've heard it whispered around Haven since I woke up.”

“Everyone say you try and close the Breach,” Cassandra said. “You at least stopped it from growing. And they have also heard about the woman seen in the rift when we found you. They believe it was Andraste herself.”

“Even if we tried to stop that belief from spreading—” Leliana started.

“Which we have not,” Cassandra said.

Leliana cleared her throat. “The point is, everyone is talking about you. Which is both a good thing for us, and possibly a bad thing for you.”

“As the Chantry has specifically denounced me for a title I did not pick,” Mahanon said.

“And it is quite a title,” Cullen said. “How do you feel about it?”

Mahanon stared at him for a long moment. The title of Inquisitor had always sat better on his shoulders and even after he had personally disbanded the Inquisition at the Exalted Council, it had still felt like a part of him. “It would not be my preferred choice,” he said finally. “But as Leliana said—it means people are talking about me—and us. It makes a symbol, whether it's for everything that's gone wrong, or hope for a different day.”

Cullen tilted his head, looking both amused and perturbed. “Symbols have a way of losing control of what they mean.”

“Yes,” Mahanon agreed. “It is dangerous to allow those rumors to spread, it is dangerous to make one person the symbol of anything.” The corner of his mouth twisted up. “On the other hand, this is a dangerous time, and we created the Inquisition to change the world. That's always a dangerous task.”

“Well, I hope you're ready to bear the weight of such a title,” Cullen said.

“I hope so too,” Mahanon said. He looked down at his hand, the Mark quiet for the moment. He curled his fingers into a fist and looked back up. “Alright, so whoever could help us with the Breach currently feels like we aren't worth the time. So what do we do to become worth that time?”

-0-

That afternoon Mahanon set out with Varric, Solas, and Cassandra for the Hinterlands near Redcliffe to find Mother Giselle, one of the only Chantry members who had even offered to speak to them.

“This could be a totally wild goose chase, you know,” Varric said.

“If you have another option,” Cassandra said.

“Besides, this could be considered community outreach,” Mahanon said, cheerfully. “The Inquisition is young and growing. If we are out, being seen to do anything, that will only help our image grow. Especially if we're seen helping people.”

“What do you think Solas?” Varric asked.

“About what?” Solas asked, leaning on his staff.

“Whether this kid has a heart of gold, or if he's a bit of a cheerfully manipulative bastard,” Varric said, gesturing to Mahanon.

Mahanon wanted to open his mouth and say that if he was manipulative, he had learned from the best. Instead he laughed, shrugging. “I think I'm probably a little bit of both.”

“He's not wrong though,” Cassandra said. “How we act will greatly affect how the Inquisition is seen moving forward.”

“So best behavior only?” Varric asked, grinning up at her and she made a disgusted noise.

Solas fell back to walk next to Mahanon behind the other two. “Is something the matter?” Mahanon asked, glancing at him sideways.

“I am considering Varric's question,” Solas said.

“Well,” Mahanon said. “I guess you're going to have to wait and see which one is most true,” Mahanon said and Solas hummed, still glancing at him from time to time as they walked and Mahanon found himself grinding his teeth.

But he still put each foot in front of the other, walking forward and back into his destiny.

 


	6. Chapter 6

“This is the type of shit you can’t put into books,” Varric groused as Mahanon dropped firewood near were Cassandra was starting a fire, Solas off to one side giving Cassandra a sardonic look. “The fledgling Inquisition spent a whole afternoon hunting down one lost Druffalo and the Herald of Andraste fell into the river.”

“I fell into the river because there were demons,” Mahanon said. “I didn’t realize the rift was just around the bend.”

“Which doesn’t remotely change the fact we were only there because some farmer had posted a notice that he was missing a damn Druffalo,” Varric said. “Which somehow managed not to get eaten by demons.”

“If this Inquisition is going to succeed, it’s going to need to help random farmers,” Mahanon said, sitting down beside Cassandra, who gave him a confused look before Mahanon remembered how distant they were and scooted a few inches to the side.

“How do you figure that?” Solas asked, standing to the edge of the camp, watching a few Inquisition scouts argue over a fire.

“The point is to gather a force, correct?” Mahanon said. “An army perhaps, something that can stand in the middle of this chaos and have the power to do anything about it. It’s not going to take long for people to not like that. The players on the stage are quite established by this point, and will not look kindly on any upstarts.”

“We have a writ—” Cassandra started.

“And the only way we’ll ever gain the respect of someone like Orlais is if we have the power to back  our words up with force,” Mahanon said. “And no one is going to like that.”

“So what does this theory have to do with random Druffalo?” Varric asked.

“Because when those great powers start looking on us with fear and hatred and want to tear us apart, it’s going to be those people who’s lives we changed that may or may not make the difference,” Mahanon said. “Besides, we’ll never become that force we want to be without convincing people we’re on their side and fighting for them. That’s how we get recruits, that’s how we grow.”

“That’s very astute,” Solas said, leaning against his staff.

“Not to mention,” Mahanon continued, refusing to look over at Solas. “We’re at the point where every action we take reflects on what the Inquisition is going to stand for. We could just be another marauding band for anyone knows. We want them to respect us, but to also know what we stand for. Which is why we fall into rivers while fighting demons away from a stray Druffalo.”

“You’re idealistic, aren’t you?” Solas asked.

Mahanon paused, looking down at where Cassandra had finally started the fire. “I’m the Herald of Andraste,” he said, tilting his chin back to meet Solas’ gaze. “And I would rather stand for what I believe in.”

“It’s an admirable goal,” Cassandra said. “One I think Leliana would approve of.”

“It does seem like her style,” Varric agreed.

“Manipulating people by being kind to them?” Mahanon asked wryly. “The Inquisition has a long, uphill battle. If we’re going to succeed, well, we might as well help those who do not have the power to help themselves.”

“Okay,” Varric said after a beat. “In that light the Druffalo incident is definitely ending up in the book.”

“You’re already writing a book?” Mahanon asked, giving Varric a sideways look.

“Well, yeah,” Varric said. “Why wouldn’t I be writing a book?”

“You’re right,” Mahanon said. “I don’t even know why I asked.”

-0-

Later that evening Cassandra caught him sitting on a trunk and looking at the stars. “Are you ready to depart for Orlais yet?”

“Eager to face the Chantry?” Mahanon asked. “Because I honestly am not.”

“Mother Giselle promised us support,” Cassandra pointed out. “Several days ago.”

“We could hardly leave the Hinterlands as we found it,” Mahanon said.

“Not after your speech earlier we certainly could not,” Cassandra said and Mahanon’s shoulders tensed as he looked at her.

“The goal you called admirable,” he said.

“It is,” Cassandra said.

“But you’re not sure it’s practical, are you?” Mahanon asked.

“We only have so many resources,” Cassandra said. “We must be careful how we use them.”

“But we also have to spend them to get noticed,” Mahanon said. “We need help to close the Breach.”

“Which is why we must go to Val Royeaux,” Cassandra said. “To get the Chantry’s support.”

“They’re not just going to give us their support,” Mahanon said, shaking his head. “If they have any real support to give. We have to earn those things.”

“Is that why we’re lingering here?” Cassandra asked. “Chasing farmer’s lost livestock?”

“And trying to convince the horse master to join us,” Mahanon said. “Let’s not forget that. Horses are very important to our efforts.”

The corner of Cassandra’s mouth twitched before her expression smoothed back out. “You are not what I expected from a Dalish elf.”

Mahanon bit the inside of his cheek. “No, I suppose I am not. I honestly don’t want to know what you did expect.”

Cassandra sighed, sitting down beside him and looking up at the sky. “You take to leadership like it’s easy.”

“Just because something looks easy doesn’t mean it is,” Mahanon murmured, resting his chin on one palm, looking at the stars again too.

“You know what you want, what your goals are and why, and you go for them with clarity I’m not used to seeing,” Cassandra said.

Mahanon snorted, looking over at her. “And aren’t you exactly the same way?”

“Perhaps,” she said, almost smiling again.

They sat in silence under the stars for a moment. “Do the Dalish have different names for the stars?” she asked after a moment, Mahanon staring at her in surprise. “It’s just. Every night you sit out here, watching them, like they comfort you.”

“Yes,” Mahanon said quietly. “We have different names for the stars.”

“Tomorrow—”

“Yes, we’ll go back to Haven and set out for Val Royeaux,” Mahanon said. “You’re right. We’ve been here long enough. It’s not like this will be the last time the Inquisition finds itself in the Hinterlands. Just let me have another go at our local horse master before we leave.”

“You have a thing about these horses,” Cassandra said with a chuckle.

“What can I say?” Mahanon said, looking at the stars again, so distant with the Breach bright in the night sky. “I’ve always liked animals.”

-0-

“So, do you not like Val Royeaux, or…?” Varric asked as Mahanon failed to suppress his shudder as they walked through the gates.

“I’m not much of a fan of Orlais,” Mahanon muttered, his shoulders hunched.

“What, you’re not all about the pageantry and the history and the fucking arrogance?” Varric asked.

“And the exalted marches and the building their palaces on my people’s bones,” Mahanon continued for him in the same breezy tone.

“Ouch,” Varric said under his breath as a scout came running up with news that surprised everyone else except Mahanon.

He sighed, feeling a shiver lodge in his spine as he realized the Envy demon was going to be standing in front of him in mere moments. But he could not reveal that he knew what the Lord Seeker really was without compromising his position with Cassandra and the rest of the Inquisition that barely trusted him yet. To recognize a demon would only be dangerous.

So he followed the others into the growing crowd, watched everything unfold in front of him and tried not to panic. When the Envy demon met his eyes across the crowd he managed to return its gaze like its attempted possession of him didn’t still feature in some of his many, varied nightmares.

“Are you alright?” Varric asked from beside him.

“Well, this didn’t work out for us at all, did it?” Mahanon said, as if that was why he was bothered.

“What is wrong with the Lord Seeker?” Cassandra asked, obviously distraught and Mahanon swallowed again, both the panic and the hysterical laugh caught in his throat.

“Well,” Solas said, leaning against his staff again. “At least it wasn’t a trap.”

“Not an obvious one anyway,” Mahanon agreed, almost calming himself down just in time for an arrow to slam into the ground at his feet.

Everyone else jumped back, startled, Cassandra’s hand going to her sword but for the first time since they set off for Orlais, Mahanon found himself grinning as he reached down to pick up the arrow with its note.

“You seem incredibly pleased to be shot at,” Varric said. “Perhaps I should start trying that when you start brooding.”

Mahanon bit his lip, trying to keep his expression under control as he unfolded the note. “I’m not sure it would have the same effect if you did it,” he said.

“That is the strangest offer of help I’ve ever seen,” Cassandra remarked, looking over his shoulder. “Is that—is that supposed to be a map?”

“It’s effective,” Mahanon said.

“It’s crude,” Cassandra said.

“Well, any offer of help is one we can’t precisely turn down at this point,” Mahanon said, and turned with a spring in his step, ready to head for the market when he almost ran right into a mage. “Ah,” he managed, some of his good mood evaporating.

“A message for you,” the mage said, handing him a fancy decorative envelope.

“Yes, thank you,” Mahanon said, managing to be gracious.

“Wow,” Varric said, getting a look at the envelope. “The contrast between those two notes could not be more pronounced.”

“You apparently have managed to impress people,” Solas said, standing at the back of the group and Mahanon wondered why he had never noticed that before, in the early days. Solas never stood quite _with_ the rest of them, but always a little behind, a little to the side. Like he wanted to mark out how much he didn’t belong with them—or to them.”

“It’s not like we should turn down any help,” Mahanon said. “Come on, we can follow the clues in this note and still have plenty of time to make the … party tonight.”

“Which none of us are dressed for,” Varric said.

“And only one of us is actually invited to,” Cassandra added.

“You are _not_ letting me go in there alone, Cassandra,” Mahanon said immediately. “Varric and Solas can skip it if they like, but you are coming with me. We’re representatives of the Inquisition. Our armor will simply have to do.”

“What? Me?” Cassandra started to protest.

“You’re the one who declared the whole endeavor,” Mahanon said, reaching the café and considering the note for the clue again. “You get to come drum up support with me.”

“I’m not good at parties,” Cassandra said, Varric laughing under his breath at her.

“That’s fine,” Mahanon said. “We can be terrible at it together.”

“I actually quite like decadent parties like this one promises to be,” Solas said and both Cassandra and Varric stared at him, while Mahanon ignored him, flipping open the red book on an empty table instead. “It’s a shame I have nothing to wear.”

“Yeah, you look like you would never have anything to wear to one of those,” Varric said.

“No,” Solas agreed.

“We are in a market place,” Varric said after a beat. “I mean—”

“Oh, I wasn’t asking to go,” Solas said and Mahanon let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. “It was just a statement.”

“I’m still trying to imagine you enjoying a party,” Cassandra said and Solas shrugged, Mahanon hunting around the market place until he had all three clues.

“I told you we’d have plenty of time to find all of them,” he said, as they started walking for the gate to the market place, heading back to their lodging just outside the city limits to prepare for the rest of what would apparently become a very long night.

“If I might have a moment of your time,” a voice said from behind them as they passed through the first gate, and Mahanon felt himself tense again.

“My, we _are_ popular,” Solas said as they all turned.

“Grand Enchanter Fiona?” Cassandra said in disbelief and Mahanon sighed.

“I really hate Orlais,” he said quietly, under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Considering everything Mahanon has said about helping the little people is it really any wonder he didn't get along super well with Vivienne the last time around? (I feel like she's a hard character sometimes, because if she's off putting to you it's easy to miss the depths of her character the first time around and I really do not like people who belittle other people so Vivienne was a hard sell for me. I think she and Dorian started insulting Blackwall and Sera and I kicked them both out of my party for the rest of like my first two playthroughs). Anyway the point here is just because Mahanon missed it the first time doesn't mean their relationship can't be different this time around.
> 
> (Basically this is to say Mahanon has a not great reaction to Vivienne this chapter but I want to assure people this isn't a shit on Vivienne or any other character fic. Simply that she and Mahanon had a somewhat contentious relationship last time but this time can be different. Mahanon isn't really prepared for all his friends eight years in the past... He's certainly not prepared for the full force of Sera at her most elf hating)


	7. Chapter 7

“Are you sure it’s such a good idea to go to the party?” Varric asked, watching Mahanon fuss over his hair before tying the Ardent Blossom back into place.

“What, worried I’m going to get attacked?”

“In Orlais?” Varric scoffed. “Perish the thought.”

“I can take care of myself,” Mahanon said. “Besides, that’s why I’m taking Cassandra as back up.”

“And you think you’ll be done in time to meet up with Solas and me at the alleyway to meet this Red Jenny character?” Varric asked, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

“You know, weirdly enough my goal is not too spend too long at any parties,” Mahanon said, looking at himself in the inn’s mirror again. “Which is something I’m certain Cassandra will agree with.” He grinned as he heard her make a disgusted noise from where she was sitting outside the doorway.

“Are you ready yet?” she asked.

“Yes, yes,” Mahanon said, glancing at the mirror one more time. Even though he had said he was ready he found himself pausing to trace the branches of the tree on his forehead, trying to ground himself for the coming night. “Alright,” he said softly to his reflection. “You can still do this.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Varric asked and Mahanon squared his shoulders, flashing him a grin.

“As fine as I ever am,” he said and Varric gave him a long look, like he was all too aware of how little that truly said.

“We’ll see you after the party,” Varric settled for, instead of calling him out and Mahanon let out another breath.

-0-

Entering the room, Mahanon barely glanced up or around. “I’m still not certain why you insisted I come along,” Cassandra said. “I would think Varric would be more charming.”

“Would you trust Varric and I at an event like this?” Mahanon asked. “Because I wouldn’t trust Varric and I alone at an event like this at the moment. I think we might accidentally set fire to someone and then we’d have to flee before achieving what we came for.”

“And what exactly do you think we’ll find here?” Cassandra asked, scowling as the assorted courtiers stared at both of them. “They only want to gawk at us.”

“What I hope to find is aid for the Inquisition,” Mahanon said. “And though you hate to admit it, you have experience with courts and their ilk.”

“How do you—” Cassandra started and was cut off by a pair of courtiers approaching them, asking for stories of the Inquisition. It felt surprisingly natural to slide into the court gossip, to smile at the right places, to keep them both guessing. But he had one eye on the staircase, just waiting for one loud mouthed noble to appear.

Which didn’t take long at all. “What a load of pig-shit,” the man said, coming down the stairs. “Just washed up sisters and crazed Seekers—” Mahanon put a hand on Cassandra’s shoulder as she started to take a step forward, listening to the man rant about the Inquisition seeking power.

“All that and you managed not to even call me a savage,” he said. “Which for an Orlesian is quite impressive.”

“I asked you what that point of your Inquisition is supposed to be,” the man snapped.

“We’re restoring the peace.”

“Ah yes, with an army,” the noble said, taking a step forward, Cassandra’s hand going to her sword, Mahanon’s hand still on her shoulder. “If you were a man of honor you would step outside and answer the charges.”

“Charges? What charges?” Mahanon laughed. “That we’re raising an army? We are. That we’re outcasts looking for power? Is—is that even a charge? Or just gossip mongering?”

The noble took an aborted step forward before he froze, Vivienne walking down the stairs and scolding him all the way down and Mahanon found himself taking a few steadying breaths, wondering if he could just leave now and make it to the Dales in time to meet up with Hawen in the Dales, repair their Aravels and start running without looking back.

“She seems charming,” Cassandra said and Mahanon spared a though to his bed room furniture that would someday be brutally rearranged but also small cheese wheels that for some reason he still didn’t understand went on his eyes.

“Charming’s one word for it,” he settled for.

-0-

A short while later he found himself standing in front of a window in a dark hallway, Vivienne in front of him and Cassandra uncomfortable back in the main party.

“I didn’t invite you to the chateau for pleasantries,” Vivienne said, as Mahanon leaned against the window. “With Divine Justinia dead, the Chantry is in shambles. Only the Inquisition might restore order and sanity to our frightened people. As the leader of the last loyal mages of Thedas, I feel it only right that I lend my assistance to your cause.”

“And what sort of assistance would you like to offer?” Mahanon asked, moonlight spilling through the windows.

“I am well versed in politics, know every member of the court personally, and have all the resources that remain to the circles, and am a mage of no small skill myself. Will that do?” she asked, cocking her head under her mask.

“And you truly think the Inquisition is the only option you have?” Mahanon asked. “We were just rejected by what remains of the Chantry today, as you might have already heard.”

“Ah, but there is potential in you,” Vivienne said. “Your organization. And the usual options have proven themselves to be… lacking.”

“What if I said I didn’t support the restoration of the circles?” Mahanon asked. “Would you still follow me then?”

“You’re a Dalish elf, are you not?” she asked and Mahanon only tilted his head in acknowledgement. “I can understand your resistance to the idea, though I wonder why you think the Dalish method is better.” Mahanon pressed his lips together and refused to reply. “But be that as it may, my larger points about the Inquisition stand. You are poised to make history and I hope to… perhaps influence the path that you might take.”

“And if we prove not to be malleable? Will you still stand with us?” Mahanon asked.

“You are very resistant to an offer of help, aren’t you my dear?” Vivienne asked.

“I want us to be honest with each other, from the start,” Mahanon said. “I do not want there to be an agenda that will only drive us apart later.”

She considered him for a long moment in the moonlight, the sounds of the party drifting through the hallway. “You are quite a soul, aren’t you?” she said. “We’re going to be making history, darling. If you’ll have me, I would like to get started.”

“Then of course we shall have you,” Mahanon said.

There was something narrow eyed in her consideration of him but after a moment she smiled. “Lovely. Weill you be returning to the party? We have a variety of entertainment and little cakes tonight.”

Mahanon chuckled, looking away. “Sadly, as much as I love little cakes, there is much work left to do tonight.”

“Well, you simply must take a few for the road,” she said, leading him back into the room, Cassandra waiting at the door with her hand still on her sword and giving everyone around her a narrowed eyed look. Mahanon missed her suddenly so much it felt like someone had punched him and he let out a soft breath.

“Are you alright, my dear?” Vivienne asked him.

“Perfectly fine,” Mahanon said quickly, because explaining how he missed someone right beside him would only make him sound mad. Instead he smiled at everyone who demanded his attention as he made his way across the room, slipping back into the performance he had gotten so used to.

-0-

“Okay,” Mahanon said, leaning against the wall of the alleyway, as he heard Sera giggle madly, the bandits that had plotted against them on the ground. “I should have really watched those little cakes for the road.”

“I warned you,” Cassandra muttered as Mahanon turned toward Sera, who was still saying something about torn trousers when she finally got a good look at him.

“And you’re an elf,” she said and Mahanon froze, because somehow over the years he had forgotten what her sneer looked like as she said that. “Well, I hope you’re not too elfy.”

As much as missing Cassandra had felt like a smack, Sera’s words felt like a sucker punch he had to keep breathing through. “Sadly, I cannot say that I’m not,” he said. “But don’t worry, I’ll do my best to not be too elfy around you.”

Her eyes narrowed and Mahanon felt his shoulders sag. “Yeah? You sure about that?”

“What I can assure you is that I care about helping people,” Mahanon said. “All people, including the little folks.”

“Seriously,” Varric said, checking Bianca. “Just ask him about what the Inquisition stands for and he has a whole speech about why we help out everyone, including the random Druffalo farmers of Thedas.”

“You’re never going to let the Druffalo incident go, are you?” Mahanon sighed.

“Well, I guess if you’re serious about helping,” Sera said. “Better to get a big organization like yours on the case, instead of just another power set on crushing those below them.”

“The only people I want to crush are my enemies,” Mahanon said quickly. “And those aren’t the little people.”

She didn’t look like she trusted him but she accepted that before vaulting off with another laugh and a promise to meet them at Haven.

“Well, she seems totally mad,” Solas said.

“Oh don’t start,” Mahanon said too quickly. “Just. Everyone has their issues alright?”

“And her’s appears to be with what and who she actually is,” Solas said. “And elf who hates other elves. How charming.”

“Well at least she doesn’t hate everyone,” Mahanon found himself saying, earning an arched brow from Solas. “That—I mean—it could be worse. And we need all the help we can get.”

“Yeah, including the really weird help,” Varric said, kicking open a chest. “Hey, there really is a stash of trousers in here.”

“Fine, maybe she’s right and we can sell them,” Mahanon said. “Because yes, we need even the weird help because what we’re up against is weird.”

“True that,” Varric said and Mahanon sagged against the wall again. “Hey, are you alright?”

“Too many little cakes, remember?” Mahanon said, because a sick stomach was a better excuse than his unexplainable sore heart.

“I’ll have to remember that your weakness is little cakes,” Cassandra remarked.

“What an embarrassing way for the Herald to be brought down,” Solas added. “Destroyed by his love for little cakes,” and Mahanon found himself laughing because any other option would end in him crying.

-0-

“You don’t look like it was a successful trip,” Cullen remarked, waiting for them at the steps of Haven.

“Well, it wasn’t a trap,” Mahanon said. “Which was our original concern so there’s that. However, the Chantry is keeping to its line about us and our heresy so it wasn’t precisely a productive jaunt either. On the plus side, we picked up some more help, so it wasn’t a total wash.”

“Yes,” Cullen remarked carefully. “One of your new recruits has already shown up.”

“From your tone of voice I’m going to assume Sera is the one that beat us here,” Mahanon said, walking up the steps and pulling his traveling cloak off.

“She’s taken up residence in the tavern,” Cullen agreed, Solas and Varric having wandered back off the instant they reached Haven’s walls, Varric saying something about needing a bath.

“We need to discuss our next steps,” Cassandra said, and Mahanon whined.

“Yes, yes, I know we do, but we just got off the road. I need at least a nap if not a full night’s rest before I can cope with the future.”

“The mages reached out to us,” Cassandra told Cullen, clearly ignoring Mahanon. “And the Templar order has left the Chantry.”

“Damn,” Cullen said under his breath. “We’ll need—”

“One of those groups to help us close the Breach,” Mahanon said, cloak folded over one of his arms. “But we have no pull with either of them yet. Neither would have any reason to trust us, or believe in any offers we make them. At this point, I assume we can’t even approach either of them yet.”

“So what do you suggest?” Cassandra asked, looking at him.

“We rest, we regroup,” Mahanon said. “Then we get out there and we keep proving who we are until one of them agrees to talk to us.” Cassandra opened her mouth again. “I already know who you want us to approach,” he said, cutting her off. “You too, Cullen.”

“We understand how Templars work,” Cullen said. “Mages—”

“Are a loose canon to you,” Mahanon said. “But that argument can wait. It doesn’t matter yet,” and he stomped off before either of them could protest, locking himself in his little hut and curling up with his knees against his chest, staring blankly at the wall.

With everything else he had ever seen, he had thought the Envy demon would have just been an annoyance, but now he could hear its laugh echoing in his head again, the corpses of everyone he knew at its feet in his own head.

He ran an angry hand through his hair, because he also remembered what Dorian had told him later about what happened at Redcliffe, the mages and the Magister who tore apart time. He was starting to fear that unchecked magic might have been what lead him to this strange loop, where he was repeating everything he had already done. Either way, he would be leaving the possibility of unchecked evil behind him.

Last time the mages had been turned into mindless slaves, because he had not gone to Redcliffe.

He buried his face in his hands, wondering what might happen to the Templar order if he ignored the Envy demon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My playthrough with Mahanon was interesting because he actually hit like lowest approval with several companions and got into massive fights with them and then turned it around and ended the game with high approval from basically everyone. But he was known to fight with basically everyone at least once though he's used to being friends with them now. That's the context with some of his interactions with the companions anyway.
> 
> Also it was completely random chance that his was the first time I did the Templar quest but that ended up feeling right for this story too for reasons that will come up later.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah... this is such a long haul story I apologize in advance for all those times I got months without updates because the sheer breadth of what I signed myself up for is overwhelming. It's gonna take a while, dear readers. 
> 
> But I've spent the last week replaying like all the games at different points so ahaha I'm dying, I care too much about all these fools.

Mahanon sat, watching Cullen yell at some recruits about the proper use of shields, Cassandra practicing not too far away, his chin in his palm. It was early enough in the morning that aside from those training, most of Haven was still asleep.

“Herald,” Cullen said suddenly and Mahanon snapped his head up. “Are you alright?”

“Am I—what?” Mahanon asked, trying to start his sluggish brain moving.

“You’ve been sitting there almost a whole half hour now,” Cullen said, shifting slightly.

“It was a long night,” Mahanon said.

“Of course,” Cullen said. “I’ll leave you be then—”

“No,” Mahanon said a shade too quickly, scrambling to his feet and Cullen blinked at him in confusion. “No, that’s quite alright. I was meaning to ask you how the recruits were shaping up but haven’t had the time.”

“Right, of course,” Cullen said, some of his surprise smoothing back down. “They’re shaping up admirably. There’s still a lot of work to be done, especially with some of the younger recruits who have very little or very sloppy training.”

“I’m sure under you they’ll be using their shields properly in no time,” Mahanon said and Cullen was considering him again. Mahanon tried not to shift under his scrutiny. They seemed to be getting along in the war room much like they had in the past, but that meant nothing for how Cullen actually was feeling about him.

“Hopefully,” Cullen said after a beat. “We’re already hearing stories of you from both the recruits and the refugees coming here out of the Hinterlands.”

“Refugees?” Mahanon asked, a shiver going up his spine. “Already?”

“Is there something wrong with that?” Cullen asked and Mahanon glanced over his shoulder at the walls of Haven behind them.

“No,” he lied. “I’m just surprised they trust us to be safe enough so soon.”

“They often don’t have many other options,” Cullen said. “And the stories of the Herald, chosen by Andraste herself, who proved himself a kind heart to the Druffalo farmers—”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Mahanon said under his breath.

“Is it any wonder they are already coming? Pilgrims too.” Cullen arched a brow when Mahanon pulled a face. “You expressed earlier in the war room you don’t particularly care for that title.”

“I don’t feel chosen,” Mahanon said. “If anything, I feel like me bearing the mark is an accident, not fate. I was not meant to be.”

“Maybe not,” Cullen said, an Inquisition agent rushing up, asking Cullen to sign something and distracting him for a moment. “But as Cassandra said,” Cullen said, turning back around. “Whether you were meant to be here or not, you seem to be exactly what’s needed when we most need it. You may be some kind of chosen.”

“Maybe,” Mahanon agreed dutifully. “What?” he asked, when Cullen considered him again.

“Are you alright?” Cullen asked again. “Truly?”

Mahanon bit his lower lip before looking at Cullen again. “I can’t sleep,” he said, as much of the truth as he dared. “I keep having nightmares. Terrible dreams about the Breach, about demons, of red lyrium as it rises out of the ground. We’ve been finding it out in the Hinterlands, with no explanation. There’s so much that could go wrong.”

When he looked back up Cullen looked like he had been struck before he cleared his throat and looked away. “I wish I had an easy answer for nightmares.”

“You were in Kirkwall, weren’t you?” Mahanon asked, like he didn’t know. In fact, now that he had some idea of what to look for, he could see Cullen’s hands shaking slightly before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. He wondered how many days it had been since Cullen had lyrium.

“Yes, I was,” Cullen said, voice tight.

“Then yes, you must have your own share of nightmares,” Mahanon said flatly and they shared a wan smile with each other.

“I really must get back to the recruits,” Cullen said after the moment stretched dangerously thin.

“Train them well, Commander Cullen,” Mahanon said. “Train them hard. Who knows what they might have to face.”

“I will,” Cullen said, a promise and Mahanon let him walk away. He stayed there for a while, watching the training and wishing he could ask Cassandra or Cullen for sparring practice, something that had allowed him to bond with both of his fellow sword wielders. But he knew them too well, and it felt like it would be too suspicious so he stood to one side and ached all over again.

Which was probably why it was a bad idea to seek out Sera in the small tavern.

“So this is it,” she said, looking around and Mahanon found his brows seeking his hairline.

“This is it,” he agreed.

“Just thought it’d be bigger,” she said, sitting across from him at one of the small tables.

“We’re just getting started,” Mahanon said.

“Is that a brag?” Sera asked, cocking her head and considering him.

“Not precisely,” Mahanon said. “More, we’ve achieved so little in so little time, and people are coming. It is small, for now, but we’ll grow from here. Or fall apart, either way it should be interesting.”

She didn’t quite look interested in that but she shrugged. “Alright. Does seem like saving the world should bring in more coin though.”

“I thought you wanted to help the little people?” Mahanon asked. “They often don’t have much to offer—nor would we want to take it.”

“Sure but you’re helping the rich people by saving the world too! Besides, we need things back to normal. That’s the only way to get money flowing again. Which is why these mages and templars need to be sat down.”

“They’re not entirely to blame for this,” Mahanon said.

“But their war is getting in the way of people actually living,” Sera said. “Oh sure there’s a hole in the sky and it’s dire and all and fucking things up for lots of people, but on the ground, the mages and the templars were disrupting life long before this.”

“And what would you say to them, if you got them to sit down?” Mahanon asked and Sera gave him a surprised look.

“What? You’re asking me what I’d say?”

“You’re the one who wants to sit them down,” Mahanon said, leaning back and crossing his arms.

“Well to stop being so daft!”

Mahanon found himself smiling, arms still crossed. “Okay, I see what your goals are here,” and Sera’s expression was wary. “We’ll just stop the war and close the hole in the sky. Not to worry though, we’ll start with the easy one first.”

After a second she giggled. “Yeah? Which is the easy one?”

“Oh closing the hole in the sky, clearly,” Mahanon said, voice flat and she laughed again.

“You’re a bit daft, aren’t you?”

“Or stubborn. I could live easily with stubborn.”

“You know, most people get all high and mighty when they get where you are,” Sera said. “You though. You’re still a bit daft.”

“I’m trying,” Mahanon said, softly. “I’m going to rely on you to make sure I don’t take myself _too_ seriously.”

She laughed again. “Yeah, alright. Give me an easy job, yeah?”

“Don’t forget,” Mahanon said. “I’m relying on you here.”

“Can I just shoot people and steal their breeches?” she asked.

“Only if you invite me along,” Mahanon said and when he left, he felt almost better for the first time since returning to Haven. Sera felt like a piece of the puzzle sliding finally into place and maybe—maybe things wouldn’t be as terrible this time.

Maybe, maybe he could even dare to wonder if he could make things turn out for the _better_ this time around, instead of only parroting his own actions.

Except he forgot Solas often lingered just up the stairs from the tavern, and he came to a grinding halt.

“Herald,” Solas called as Mahanon turned, fully intending to take his bruised heart and hide.

“Don’t call me that,” he said, turning back around.

“Apologies,” Solas said. “I wasn’t certain what I should call you and only wished for your attention.”

“Mahanon would be fine,” Mahanon said, taking the few stairs to stand next to Solas. “What can I do for you?”

Solas considered him. “I just wanted to say that I met your new… recruits,” Solas said. “Particularly our new friend the Senior Enchanter.”

Mahanon couldn’t help his wince which seemed to amuse Solas. “Ah. Yes. And how did you find our Madame de Fer?”

“That’s quite the title,” Solas said. “I only wanted to remind you of our earlier conversation.”

“Which one?”

“The one where you insisted you would protect me,” Solas said.

“Are you concerned about Vivienne?” Mahanon asked, surprised.

“She is a circle mage,” Solas said. “I get the sense she’s eying me up for circle robes any time she looks at me.”

“Well,” Mahanon admitted. “She probably most certainly is eying you up for _some_ change of clothing.”

Solas glanced down at his tunic and leggings and shrugged, Mahanon’s eyes caught on the wolf jawbone he wore around his neck. Why had he never found that odd before? “All mages may be apostates now, but I get the feeling she’s even more offended by me than Cassandra.”

“She may well be,” Mahanon agreed. “But that doesn’t really matter. What I said, stands.”

“Even if you find more allies that would disapprove?” Solas asked.

“Are you testing me?” Mahanon asked. “To see if I’ll eventually say no, this is the limit where I’d rather have someone else over you? Even if I invited the Templar order itself into the Inquisition tomorrow, it wouldn’t matter. I promised you protection, I promised you a voice, I will not take that back.”

“Actually I think you just promised me protection,” Solas said, giving him that same look he had the first time Mahanon had so loudly insisted that he would protect him by any means necessary.

“Do you think you do not have a voice in this Inquisition?” Mahanon asked.

“I suppose you seem willing to listen to me,” Solas said and Mahanon slung one leg over the stack of crates nearby, sitting down.

“Yes,” he agreed. “I’m here, willing to listen. Because you have a place here and as long as I’m here, you always will.”

Solas tilted his head. “And what do you intend to listen to?”

Mahanon swallowed hard, and pretended like it didn’t kill him to say, “Tell me about your travels in the Fade,” because Solas gave him the same pleased smile he always did when Mahanon asked him about magic and Mahanon wished he could avoid this whole charade a second time. But instead he asked Solas to tell him of a battlefield, of a ruin, of all the places he might have dreamed. He kept asking like it didn’t hurt. Like he didn’t almost wish Solas would just stab him in the back again and get it over with.


	9. Chapter 9

It felt like a victory, finally staggering out of the Chantry after another argument between the Inquisition’s advisors about whether to approach the Mages or the Templars. Once again, they had decided that they couldn’t yet approach either group and Mahanon had quickly volunteered to go back to the Hinterlands and drum up more support for their cause. Their decision would hardly matter if they could not even reach Redcliffe.

Then on his way out, he tried to avoid Vivienne’s gaze. He respected her immensely, but since she had taken up position to one side of the Chantry he had been avoiding her, not willing to listen to her explain his own people to him just yet. The last thing his already overburdened heart needed was to hear lies about how the Dalish treated their mages. None of the clans needed him blowing their only cover story in a fit of pique.

But Leliana caught him instead, asking him to seek out the only known Grey Warden in the Hinterlands and he almost asked her then and there how much exactly she knew about Constable Blackwall. It had been a sore point between them for a while, when no one knew how to handle Rainer in their midst instead of the respected Grey Warden they thought they had been fighting beside.

He almost told her no, he wouldn’t even seek the man out, even though he knew despite everything that he absolutely would. He just had to remember to call him Blackwall again.

Thus, by the time he stepped out into Haven’s clear, cold air, he felt like he could finally breath again. Until someone spoke from beside him and Mahanon felt like his entire world froze.

“Excuse me, I have a message for the Inquisition but I have a hard time getting anyone to talk to me.”

Mahanon had been certain that no meeting would hurt as much as seeing Solas again, and to some extent he was still correct. But being thrown across the icy tundra by a dragon god avatar hurt less than seeing Krem Aclassi in front of him again, a little nervous but with his usual half smile in place. Mahanon almost turned right back around to storm into the Chantry again just to escape. Surely Krem had someone else he could give his message to, somehow who hadn’t sent him to a pointless death and reaped all the rewards that action had sown.

“And what message are you trying to pass on?” he asked, throat dry.

Krem gave him a considering look but seemed to accept that Mahanon could accept the message. “My name is Cremisius Aclassi, from the mercenary band Iron Bull’s Chargers. We got word that some Tevinter Magisters are amassing on the Storm Coast,” and Mahanon almost barked out a bitter laugh, having somehow forgotten that things started and ended on that same creator forsaken stretch of beach. “If you want to see us in action, you can meet us there.”

“And why would the Inquisition want to see you in action?” Mahanon asked.

“Because we’re one of the best!” Krem said. “You need soldiers, and skill, and we have both.”

Mahanon cleared his throat and looked away for a moment. “Is Iron Bull your leader?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Krem said, and Mahanon could hear the affection in his voice and it made him want to throw up. “He’s one of those big ones, the Qunari. He leads from the front, he pays well, and he’s a lot smarter than the last bastards I worked for. Best of all, he’s professional.” Krem paused. “You’re the first time he’s gone out of his way to pick a side.”

Mahanon bit the inside of his cheek hard. “Any idea why he decided to that?”

“I don’t know,” Krem admitted. “Maybe he just really likes you. At the least he wants to work for you because he thinks you’re doing good work.”

“We’ll consider your offer,” Mahanon said, forcing the words out with less difficulty than he feared.

“We appreciate that,” Krem said. “Just come to the Storm Coast and see us in action.”

Mahanon nodded tightly at him, turning away. “Say,” Krem said. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“It,” Mahanon floundered. “Apologies, I forgot. It’s Mahanon Lavellan.”

Krem’s eyes widened. “Oh shit—You’re him. The Herald.”

“I—Yes. Excuse me, I really must go,” Mahanon said and he would never be too proud to not admit that he fled in that moment.

“We going back to—You look like shit,” Varric said, catching him at the bottom of the stairs.

“Do I? Yes, we’re going back out to the Hinterlands. Grab Solas, would you?”

“Sure thing, boss,” Varric said and Mahanon tensed.

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped before he could stop it and Varric arched his brows at him. “Sorry, sorry,” Mahanon said, rubbing the bottom of his jaw. “Just—Please don’t call me that.”

“Yeah, okay,” Varric said. “Sure thing. So I’ll get Solas. Anyone else joining us on this installment of helping out the little people?”

“Yeah,” Mahanon said after a beat. “Why not ask Sera if she wants to go?”

“Oh, that sounds like fun,” Varric said like he possibly meant something else, but it didn’t ease the knot in Mahanon’s chest at all.

-0-

Varric caught him at their campsite that night, as Mahanon was studiously fussing with his bedroll. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“People keep asking me that,” Mahanon muttered.

“Yeah, I wonder why,” Varric said, settling down on top of Mahanon’s bedroll and Mahanon gave him an unimpressed look. “You looked really freaked out earlier, before we left Haven.”

“I just ran into someone was all,” Mahanon said, shooting Varric another exhausted look before going back to fiddling with the edges of his bedroll, as if he needed to make it lie perfectly straight on the hard ground. “They reminded me of someone that I—hurt. In the past. It just brought some stuff up.”

“Can’t imagine you hurting someone on purpose,” Varric said and Sera glanced over at them from where she was fletching her arrows across the fire. Solas was sitting a bit closer to the rest of them then he had previously, and he made no show of not paying attention to them.

“Yes, well,” Mahanon said, tugging on the blanket. “I did. And while it was a mistake it also was completely my intention at the time so if you could give me back my bedroll?”

“Hey, I’m just trying to be a supportive ear here,” Varric said.

“I know,” Mahanon said, voice strained. “But it was what it was, and it is what it is. All I can do now is just keep moving on. And learning. And not make the same damned mistake twice.”

He wondered what Cassandra and Cullen and Leliana’s faces would look like as he cheerfully told them he threw the offered Qunari alliance away with no regrets in his heart. He remembered their faces last time, and the tiny gasp Josephine had given as she covered her mouth and cried, on that rainy day when they still thought that it had been _worth it_.

If that was even possible.

“But tomorrow is going to be a long day,” Mahanon said. “We should all get some rest.”

He ignored the fact that everyone was still watching him as he rolled himself into the bedroll now that Varric had finally vacated it.

That night he didn’t dream about the envy demon and it would have been a relief if he didn’t dream about Bull’s face in the harsh light of his mark flaring wildly out of control.

-0-

“So a Warden,” Solas said as they picked their way up the mountain toward the lake.

“Why do I get the feeling from your tone of voice you don’t like them?” Mahanon asked flatly.

“They don’t know what powers they play with,” Solas snapped and Mahanon barely stopped himself from asking if Solas actually _did_.

“That doesn’t sound familiar or anything,” Mahanon said, waving his left hand.

“Closing the rifts isn’t the same as destroying the soul of an old god,” Solas said, eyes narrowed.

“Corrupted old gods,” Mahanon said. Solas opened his mouth again and Mahanon shook his head. “It doesn’t really matter. Leliana is right, that it’s odd the Wardens have all disappeared. We should investigate and it’s not like we couldn’t use more help.”

“I don’t approve,” Solas said.

“Duly noted,” Mahanon said, almost cheerful as Solas glared at him again.

Reaching the top of the hill, he picked his way around the lake, picking up a few Blood Lotus’ and folding their stems carefully into a pouch on his belt. Coming around the other side he stopped a way away from where Blackwall was urging his recruits to battle.

Even more than with some of the others he had met, he felt struck by how much younger Blackwall looked. There were less lines around his eyes, and less silver in his beard than there would be.

He joined in the fight when it came, said all the right things and didn’t once scream at Blackwall for lying so blatantly to his face. There was one moment though when he couldn’t help but look from Solas to Blackwall and back again.

Blackwall had agreed to meet them back at camp and Mahanon was turning away, already intending to follow the instructions left on some letter to press further up the mountain pass when Blackwall cleared his throat. “I have to ask though…”

“Yes?” Mahanon asked, turning back around.

“The flowers in your hair,” Blackwall said, shifting slightly like he was uncomfortable but had to know. “I didn’t realize it was a Dalish thing. Do you have to pick them every day?”

“Do I—It’s not a Dalish thing,” Mahanon said. “And it—I don’t pick them every day.”

“You don’t?” Varric asked and Mahanon looked down at him.

“What?”

“You don’t pick them every day?” Varric asked. “How do they always look so nice then?”

“Varric,” Mahanon said. “Haven is covered in snow. Where would I have found fresh flowers every day?”

“I don’t know,” Varric admitted. “I thought it was just a you thing and you, just, found a way.”

Sera was giggling as Blackwall looked between Varric and Mahanon. “I—No!”

“Is it an enchantment then, because I’d love to know who keeps your flowers fresh,” Varric said, glancing at Solas in a way that was meant to be suggestively teasing but made Mahanon’s heart catch in his throat.

“No! There’s no—The flowers are kept alive with lyrium,” Mahanon said. “Yes, there’s a runic enchantment on them too that helps keep armor strong but they’re not just flowers and it’s not just because I feel like it!”

“Huh,” Varric said and feeling flustered Mahanon turned back to Blackwall.

“Did—did that answer your question?”

“Yeah,” Blackwall said mostly into his beard. “I meant no offense by it. I just had never seen such an interesting—arrangement before.”

“Right,” Mahanon said. “We’ll just—be going. I look forward to seeing you soon at camp. We’ll have much to discuss then.”

He turned and marched away, heading for the winding trail he could barely see, the others following but Solas was the one who came up beside him. “I admit, I was wondering about the flowers too,” he said, low, as Sera and Varric were already comparing drinking songs behind them.

“Apparently everyone is,” Mahanon said.

“It’s an item of immense power and value, from what you just said,” Solas said and Mahanon’s eyes darted over, trying to come up with an explanation for where he found it when Solas asked. But instead Solas said, “And it looks remarkably good on you.”

Mahanon stopped walking abruptly, even though Solas kept going, leaving him behind.

“You okay?” Varric asked, beside him now.

“Fine, fine,” Mahanon said, a bit breathless before he jogged to catch back up with Solas. “Is that so?” he asked Solas, like he hadn’t reacted so obviously and Solas just smirked at him.

“Surely you’re already aware,” he said and Mahanon found the corner of his mouth twitching.

That night he fell asleep listening to Solas and Varric snipe at each other across the fire and dreamed of the sky falling down. In the foggy, grey light of dawn he found himself sitting outside his tent and holding the Ardent Blossom in his hands, wishing he could throttle Solas as much as he wished he could kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will I ever not enjoy catching Mahanon flat footed? Stay tuned...
> 
> Also I wanted Mahanon to have made some really stupid mistakes so he would have even more specific stakes to fix (Especially when he starts really questioning what he can change and if he even CAN change anything). I don't think I've done a single play through where I sacrifice the Chargers because on a meta level we know there's no freaking point. The alliance never materializes and all you did was lose a really cool group of people (and the fact that you can kill off the trans character for no actual in game gain is so many levels of problematic I still want to pitch this whole thing off a cliff) but in universe, in the moment, I think the Inquisitor would be severely tempted by an alliance with a group that is hella powerful and also prone to not allying themselves with anyone. But all you get in the end is a big mess of betrayal which is really a theme in this game so we gotta heap all that on Mahanon right?


	10. Chapter 10

The next morning Blackwall joined their group as they headed South in the Hinterlands, Varric waving them off with a cheeky grin and demands to hear all about it.

“Maybe today we’ll actually not run into any bears,” Sera said, and Mahanon kept catching her sidelong looks at Blackwall as they walked.

“No promises,” Mahanon said, Solas off a little to the side, using his staff as a walking stick and looking like maybe he hadn’t slept the night before either. “Are you alright?” Mahanon asked.

“Concern, for me?” Solas asked, bite in his tone and Mahanon shrugged it off.

“We might run into bears, after all.”

“We might run into a lot worse than that,” Solas said and Mahanon bit the inside of his cheek. “Worse” was after all walking beside him. Solas had done what no bear ever had and that was drive a sword into his back.

“I’d still hate for you to be eaten by a bear,” Mahanon said. “So. Are you alright?”

“I had strange dreams last night,” Solas said, giving him a long look as they walked.

“I thought you controlled all your dreams,” Mahanon said. “You know more about the Fade and how it works than any other mage I’ve ever met.”

“Met many of them, have you?” Solas asked.

“That was a compliment,” Mahanon pointed out.

Solas looked away and they went several yards in silence, Blackwall making awkward talk with Sera behind them. They were still feeling each other out, both intensely cautious and Mahanon might have laughed except all his attention was on Solas beside him.

“These were strange dreams,” Solas said. “That is all.”

“Of course,” Mahanon demurred, looking away himself now. He wanted to press, and more than that the Well of Sorrows had some succinct things to say about what types of dreams mages could not control. If only he could piece all the words of what it whispered together, but still after all these years he caught only about three out of every five words.

But before he could put his foot in his mouth about magic he didn’t understand a bear came tumbling down the nearest hillside and honestly it was a bit of a relief.

Even if Sera’s arrow actually grazed Blackwall and even if Solas took a fall after a badly cast ice spell that made Mahanon grit his teeth because there was no reason for Solas to mess up spells unless he was doing it on purpose.

But afterwards, as he and Sera discussed how many soldiers the bear pelt could keep warm, Blackwall walked up beside him. “I noticed it yesterday,” he said. “But you are very handy in a fight.”

“Yes,” Mahanon agreed.

“The left hand sweep you did,” Blackwall continued and Mahanon felt himself tense. “It’s an Orlesian move if I’m not mistaken. Haven’t seen it used much in the last few years.”

“Is it?” Mahanon asked. “I can’t even remember where I picked it up.”

“Still,” Blackwall said, sounding pleased and not suspicious. “You’re rather impressive.”

“Thank you,” Mahanon said, feeling every inch of the awkwardness in him.

“You are shite at taking compliments, aren’t you?” Sera asked, checking the string on her bow.

“Yeah, weirdly not a talent I have,” Mahanon agreed and Blackwall chuckled.

“Maybe exposure will help,” Sera chirped.

“Don’t even think about it,” Mahanon said, a little too quickly.

“You should take pride in your abilities,” Blackwall said and Mahanon looked at the sky instead of any of his companions.

“Right,” he said a bit too firmly. “Shall we move on then?”

“Sure,” Sera said. “Where are we heading next,” and Mahanon jerked his chin in a random direction, certain soon enough they would walk into some trouble or other.

He had just forgotten the old ruined castle filled with Cultists to the East of their current position until it was too late to turn right back around.

-0-

“They call you the Herald of Andraste,” the woman at the gate said, eyes sharp in the cold sunlight. “But are you? The Maker has not told me.”

Mahanon shifted, before he forced himself to stop. “No, I am not,” he said, and could feel the way Blackwall and Solas were both staring at his back.

“I figured as much,” the woman said. “Reports of you mastering the rifts are just blind heresy.”

“Oh no,” Mahanon said. “I can close the rifts.”

She gave him a narrowed eyed look. “Then prove it,” she said, motioning so the gate behind her started to rise. “Show me the rifts bend to your will, the will of the Maker.”

Mahanon managed to say he wouldn’t be showing anyone the will of the Maker by closing the Rift. “What are you even doing out here, anyway? What does your cult believe in?”

“The Chantry has fallen and shown it’s imperfection in doing so. The Chant of Light was a lie. It was arrogance to think mortal lips could frame the Maker’s will. And so we wait in silence. The Maker has opened the sky. Soon he will call his chosen back to the Golden City.”

“Right,” Mahanon said. “I should go close that rift then.”

“Until the Maker brings you back to me,” she said, stepping aside like she fully expected him to spend himself against the rift and never return.

“I suppose it was inevitable some would start worshipping the Breach,” Solas said as they stepped inside the ruins of the old castle, full of people standing and watching them.

“Do you blame them for that?” Mahanon asked, striding forward.

“People are too quick to worship what they cannot understand,” Solas said. “Or that which purports to give them answers.”

“Or that which is powerful,” Mahanon said and Solas was considering him again. “What is it?”

“You realize if you close the rift here,” Solas said, waving an arm around. “They will only move that regard to you. They do not believe in the Chantry, they are looking for anything to throw their faith at.”

“Are you asking me if I want their worship?” Mahanon asked, stopping in the courtyard to turn fully to Solas, Sera and Blackwall awkward behind them. “You think I wanted this title to begin with?”

“The Herald of Andraste?” Solas asked. “You have not disavowed it either.”

“I could remind you what we are up against,” Mahanon said. “I have do anything in my power to disavow that title without risking our position. People need something to hold onto in this time.”

“And after this time?” Solas asked, taking a step toward him. “If this crisis passes and the Breach is closed and the rifts go silent. You will still be known as the Herald, as a messenger of their god—”

“And you think I would use that in peace to set myself up as a god?” Mahanon asked. “I never _wanted_ this title—”

“But you’ve used it.”

“The world happens to be ending,” Mahanon said.

“We make compromises when the world is dark,” Solas agreed. “But what happens when the threat passes. Who will you be then?”

“Or I could just become a martyr now and not have a single say in how my legacy is used,” Mahanon said. “I cannot tell you what will become of me when this is over. I cannot say what power I will yield. But if they need the Herald now, then that is who they shall have because it gets me through the door to where the rift even is,” and he gestured toward the green glow coming from the doorway in front of them with his right hand.

“Perhaps,” Solas allowed after a moment.

“Perhaps,” Mahanon repeated in disbelief.

“Be aware,” Solas said, taking a step toward him and Mahanon felt his spine draw up straight. “Of what powers you are toying with.”

“I am trying,” Mahanon said, meeting his eyes. He knew the cultists were watching them, knew Blackwall and Sera probably had fairly distinct opinions about their quarrel but he say nothing aside from Solas.

“And if trying is not good enough?” Solas asked.

“Then I suppose we’ll have to just watch the world burn,” Mahanon said, and turned on his heel, stalking down the worn path into the cavern beneath the castle, the rift flaring to ugly life in front of him.

Somewhat ironically it was the easiest rift to close he’d encountered in the Hinterlands so far, only a few demons sliding out of it before he threw the anchor into it and pulled it shut. When they emerged moments later, Blackwall leaning over to whisper something to Sera that made her giggle, the cultists were already gathered, staring at him with wide and adoring eyes.

 _I didn’t want this_ , Mahanon wanted to say but instead he squared his shoulders and strode forward, meeting Sister Anais at the far end of the courtyard, where she had already been coming toward him.

“I was a fool to have doubted you,” she said, and promised to spread word of the Inquisition when he asked. “Some will remain here,” she said. “The rest will go forth to do your will.”

“Right,” Mahanon said and inclined his head. “Thank you.”

“Of course, Herald of Andraste,” she said and Mahanon walked away as quickly as he could while remaining dignified, not wanting to hear anything Solas might say to that.

Instead it was Blackwall who fell in beside him. “Do you really not consider yourself the Herald?” he asked.

“This may have escaped you,” Mahanon said, pointing to the markings on his face. “But I’m not exactly a member of the Chantry to begin with.”

“Do you not believe in the Maker?” Blackwall asked with a small frown between his brows.

“Do you?” Mahanon asked.

“I believe that men are wicked enough to convince any god to abandon us to our own fate,” Blackwall said. “Maybe the Chantry got it right, maybe they didn’t. But you, with where you stand—”

“I do not believe I was chosen by Andraste,” Mahanon said. “I do not believe she was the figure behind me in the Fade. But since I don’t remember much of anything at all about what _did_ happen, I could be wrong.”

“Do you believe in the elven gods?” Blackwall asked, and there was no spite in his voice the way Cassandra sometimes had, just genuine curiosity.

“Does that really matter?" Mahanon asked. “Honestly, for all I insist I’m not the Herald and she wasn’t Andraste, I’m not sure of just about anything anymore.”

“But you’re fighting,” Blackwall said.

“Yes,” Mahanon said. “I’m still fighting.”

“I hope that inspires people,” Blackwall said. “It should inspire people. To fight, despite everything.”

“Perhaps it will,” Mahanon said, looking up at the sky. “We should make camp for the night. Varric mentioned a place not far from here he thought would make a good spot.”

As they walked, Solas fell in beside him again. “You had an entire cult at your feet,” he said.

“Solas, I really don’t—” Mahanon started.

“And you asked them to spread the word of the Inquisition,” Solas said.

“Yes,” Mahanon agreed warily.

“But not yourself.”

“I think the two have become quite inflated with each other,” Mahanon said.

“To some extent,” Solas said. “You have become the face of the Inquisition, but you are not the Inquisition. You had a chance to leverage more power for yourself, and instead you subsumed it into the Inquisition.”

“I believe in the Inquisition,” Mahanon said softly, even as he heard the echo of a heavy book hitting an Orlesian floor. “I believe what we’re fighting for.”

“Yes,” Solas said. “It was a good call to make.”

“Really?” Mahanon looked at him. “I thought you would have hated that, after everything you said before.”

“You are putting the Inquisition above yourself,” Solas said. “Perhaps I could be wrong about your motivations. We shall see,” and Mahanon slowed a little so Solas would get ahead of him.

“So today we broke up a cult for our own use,” Sera said, sliding in beside him. “What are we going to do tomorrow?”

“That’s a good question,” Mahanon said, and he looked up at the sky again, feeling the last rays of the winter sun as it slide below the mountains. “I’m sure we’ll find something to keep ourselves occupied with.”

“Preferably not more bears,” Sera said.

“No promises,” Mahanon laughed as the sun slid behind the mountains and twilight fell around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit I had to do the cultist bit because the intersection of like gods and faith in this game (and especially between Solas and Mahanon where Solas is one of his gods and yet Mahanon is positioned as a messiah figure from a different faith) is just so much???


	11. Chapter 11

Varric sat down beside Mahanon the next morning as he ate with one hand and held reports from agents in the field with the other. “Busy morning?”

“Can you make sure the sentry towers around the farm are actually doing what they’re supposed to?” Mahanon called over his shoulder before turning back to Varric. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Not quite the point I was making,” Varric said, plucking one report up and glancing it over. “We need remedial handwriting classes for agents.”

“They can read and write,” Mahanon shrugged.

“But can _you_ read them?” Varric asked and Mahanon leaned over, snatching the report in question out of Varric’s hands.

“Can I help you with something this morning?”

“I was going to head back to Haven,” Varric said and Mahanon frowned at him over the top of the report. “Got some stuff I need to work on and you seem well situated here. You don’t actually need me right now, do you?”

“I, I guess not,” Mahanon allowed.

“Cassandra has been making noise about having me _write_ things,” Varric said and chuckled. “For the Inquisition she insists! But there’s a glimmer in her eyes when she says it that I can’t quite figure out.”

“Right,” Mahanon said, knowing _exactly_ what that glimmer meant.

“When I’m there can I tell them to start preparing an expedition to the Wounded Coast when you get back?” Varric asked, giving him a knowing look that made Mahanon stare at him.

“The,” he started and fell into blinking.

“Is there a reason you’ve been putting it off?” Varric asked, chin in one hand.

“There’s been so much to do,” Mahanon said.

“A Qunari specifically calls you out and you’re putting him off?” Varric asked.

“Do you _want_ a Qunari mercenary?” Mahanon asked. “Considering everything that happened in Kirkwall—”

“They are really useful in a fight,” Varric said. “As I know firsthand. Besides, this makes me curious. And even with extending that offer to you he’s only going to hang around so long.”

Mahanon sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “You’re right. I have been putting it off and I don’t have a good reason. Yes, when you get back to Haven let the scouts know we’re moving out to the Wounded Coast. I just need to finish a few things up here and I’ll be behind you in a couple of days.”

Varric reached over, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Mahanon sighed, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck and going back to the reports.

“You are planning to sleep at some point, right?” Varric asked and Mahanon’s eyes flickered back up.

“Yes, of course.”

“Of course,” Varric snorted. “Yeah, _when_?”

“When I’m dead, probably,” Mahanon said, and wondered if he would ever actually die.

Or if he would just keep doing this over and over. Aside from his hand, nothing had changed when he woke up in the past. He was eight years older than he had been last time. Would he do this over and over and over again until he was white haired and couldn’t pick up a sword?

“You okay?” Varric asked and he startled, realizing he had been staring unseeing at the reports in his hands.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“You really do need to rest,” Varric said.

“I know,” Mahanon said. “I will. I promise. I mean, I am resting, when I get the chance.”

“You were screaming last night,” Varric deadpanned at him and Mahanon winced.

“I didn’t realize—look I didn’t say it was good rest. But I’m taking what I can.”

“I can stay,” Varric started.

“No, no, you said you have things you need to see to in Haven,” Mahanon said. “I’ll be fine. I’ll put Blackwall on pestering duty and he’ll make you proud.”

“You think?” Varric asked a bit dubiously.

“He seems like a dependable sort,” Mahanon said, light. “You know, like he might pick you up and throw you over his shoulder and carry you to bed if you give him backtalk about your health.”

“Is that all he’s doing when he carries you to bed?” Varric asked, brows all the way up and Mahanon gave him a narrow-eyed look.

“Yes, yes it is.”

“I mean, I see the appeal—”

“Varric,” Mahanon said and a throat cleared beside him, making him tense and slowly turn to look up at Solas, who stood staring down at him. “Solas. How can I help you?”

“I was coming to inquire if we might take a detour today,” Solas said.

“Where?” Mahanon asked.

“I have heard rumors about an ancient elven artifact in these parts,” and Mahanon’s hands tightened on the reports, crumbling the parchment in his hands as he didn’t take his eyes away from Solas. “I believe it might have something to do with the Veil. It could aid us.”

“How far away?” Mahanon asked, voice under control.

“Not far,” Solas said. “To the Northeast.”

“We’ll be heading North today,” Mahanon said. “I want to check in with our Master of the Horses before we head back to Haven. We can check it out.”

“Thank you,” Solas said with one long incline of his head before he turned away. Mahanon watched him for a minute before dropping the reports entirely and chasing after him.

“Solas,” he called out and Solas stopped, turning back around. “You know Varric was just teasing me, it wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t what?” Solas asked, slightly arch.

“What it potentially sounded like,” Mahanon said.

“Like what? That you are romantically interested in Warden Blackwall?” Solas asked and Mahanon’s mouth hung open for half a second too long.

“Yeah, it isn’t—”

“Is there a reason I should care about your romantic inclinations?” Solas asked, and his arms were crossed and his spine straight like he was unhappy about something and Mahanon shouldn’t be able to read him that well yet.

“Right,” he said instead, a little unsteady. “No, of course not.”

“Should I?” Solas repeated, a bit more intensely.

“No,” Mahanon said again. “I need to make sure I have the dispatches ready for Varric and his group when they head out. I’ll—”

“I’ll prepare to leave,” Solas said, walking away again and leaving Mahanon staring after him.

“Right,” Mahanon said, watching him go before he buried his face in one hand.

-0-

As they walked across the Hinterlands, following one of the roads that was blessedly clear of mages or templars this morning, Blackwall kept shooting him a sideways look.

“If there was a rumor,” Mahanon said finally. “It was incorrect.”

“Sure,” Blackwall said, and Mahanon sighed, speeding his steps up so he was walking closer to Solas and instantly regretted it.

“I’m curious about these artifacts,” Mahanon said.

“What brings this curiosity about?” Solas asked.

“Well, you said they were old,” Mahanon said. “But doesn’t the story go that the Veil was created when the elven gods were locked away?”

“Is that how the story goes?” Solas asked, eyes sliding over.

“Sometimes,” Mahanon said. “I don’t think it’s called the Veil in the stories, but, well, there’s always more truth in old myths than anyone fully understands. Being locked away in the heavens isn’t that far of a leap to the Veil.”

“So what is your question?” Solas asked.

“How could the ancient elves have created any artifact that interacts with the Veil?” Mahanon asked and Solas stopped walking, Blackwall stumbling behind him to keep from running into him.

“That is,” Solas started. “A very… astute question.”

“Do you really think it will strengthen the Veil?” Mahanon asked, because last time he hadn’t even questioned why Solas would want to strengthen the Veil. But now he wondered how Solas turned from strengthening the Veil to tearing the whole thing down around their ears.

“Yes,” Solas said, voice tight.

“Why?” Mahanon asked.

“Because in my dreams it seemed like these were created by the ones who put the Veil up in the first place,” Solas said and stalked away, back straight and angry and Mahanon stood rooted to the spot.

“People put up the Veil?” Sera asked, wrinkling her nose.

“Elves put up the Veil?” Blackwall echoed.

Mahanon stood there before finally turning his head to where Solas was walking away. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

“Is it really Elvish legend that you created the Veil?” Blackwall asked.

“It’s an obscure theory,” Mahanon said, not really paying much attention to him before he jogged to catch up with Solas. “I wasn’t questioning your desire to help,” he said. “I just wanted to understand—”

“Do you think I’m mad?” Solas asked.

“You’re acting a little mad,” Mahanon shot back.

“I’m not mad,” Solas snapped and Mahanon fell silent beside him. They walked for a while like that, together but silent. “I am confused by you.”

“I’m really not that confusing,” Mahanon said.

“Perhaps not to yourself,” Solas said.

“Speak for yourself then,” Mahanon said.

Solas gave him another look, like he was going to protest something Mahanon said when a shout went up and they both broke into a run, coming around the last corner in time to see a Dalish mage strike a demon down, the body exploding in a burst of green light.

“Ah,” Solas muttered like he was displeased his artifact had already been spotted by someone else but Mahanon felt himself break out into a grin as he walked forward, arms spread to greet her in their own language.

“I did not expect to see another Dalish here,” she said after her own greeting. “My name is Mihris. By your weapons I see you come ready for battle. Perhaps we face a common enemy in these demons.”

“Are you here on your own?” Mahanon asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “I’ve been seeking out an ancient artifact that is rumored to help measure the Veil. As I cannot close the rifts myself, I thought I would see if I could prevent them from forming at all. Will you help me?”

“That is actually why we are here as well,” Mahanon said.

“Do Dalish usually travel alone?” Blackwall asked, Solas having already wandered closer to the cavern mouth a few paces away. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of you out on your own before.”

“I am alone,” she said, giving him a hard look.

“What brought you away from your clan?” Mahanon asked.

“They were killed by a demon that our Keeper was foolish enough to summon. I am the only survivor of clan Virnehn. I was searching for clan to take me in when the Breach appeared. Now I’m doing whatever I can to help against this madness.”

“My clan is to the North,” Mahanon said. “In the Free Marches.”

“You think they would take me in?” Mihris asked.

“I think they could use the help,” Mahanon said.

“But the North is very far away from the Breach,” she said.

“Well, you could always join the Inquisition after this,” Mahanon said, ignoring the looks he got from both Solas and Sera for that.

“And what good is the Inquisition doing?” she asked, arching a brow at him.

“We were formed to close the Breach,” Mahanon said. “And so far the only means to closing the rifts we’ve found seems to be, well, myself.”

“You close rifts?” she asked, leaning forward. “But how?”

Mahanon raised his left hand and let the anchor flare bright green. “Sadly, we have no idea how this was done and can hardly recreate it.”

“Well, I suppose we shall have to make sure you don’t die then,” Mihris said.

“Yes, that would be problematic,” Mahanon agreed.

“Are we finding this artifact or not?” Solas asked from the mouth of the cave, where he’d already knocked the wards down.

“Yes, coming,” Mahanon called up to him before looking back at Mihris. “Consider what I said. The Inquisition could have a place for you, and if you’d rather return to our own people, Clan Lavellan would welcome you.”

“Thank you,” she said, inclining her head to him as he turned and jogged up the small hillside to Solas.

“Ready?” he asked.

“I was waiting for you,” Solas said, gesturing toward the dark cave and Mahanon led the way inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Wheezes* Okay guys if you think I didn't cry when the trailer dropped last night you would be wrong. I totally cried. Solas just had to say two lines WE'VE ALREADY HEARD and I cried and then yelled loud enough to startle the cats. Apparently burning my dragon candle last night was the proper offering to the video game gods.
> 
> Also here's some [pretty screenshots of Mahanon](http://victoriousscarf.tumblr.com/post/180904250217/sometimes-i-have-very-specific-feelings-and-then) that have nothing to do with this part of the story but that were making me really emotional today.


	12. Chapter 12

It was simple enough to dispatch the few demons inside the ruins, and Mahanon pretended he had never seen Veil Fire before as Solas explained what it was.

But when he came to the artifact, hands hovering over it, he found himself pausing.

“That is the artifact I told you about,” Solas said behind him, still holding the Veil Fire torch.

“I,” Mahanon said. He could remember the Warden Commander of Ferelden giving him a five-minute lecture on not trusting magic he knew nothing about when they met some two years ago. Alim Surana had swept in with the wind one day, showing up at Skyhold like he wasn’t late for anything at all.

Later when Alim had explained how he came to an Arcane Warrior Mahanon had given him a long look that caused Alim to shrug. “Yes, but I’m actually a mage,” he said. “You just ran around all of Thedas activating artifacts you don’t understand. After all this time do you actually know what they _really_ did?”

And Mahanon hadn’t.

But earlier Solas had let slip that the artifacts were created by the same person who created the Veil, which was Solas himself. If they were created to create the Veil maybe they did exactly what Solas said, in which case Mahanon had lost track of his motivation completely.

“Mahanon?” Blackwall asked, which meant Mahanon had been standing there far too long.

With a deep breath Mahanon accepted if he met Alim again he would probably get the same lecture and he activated the artifact, watching the same green runes appear and then dissipate into the air.

“The Veil is strengthened here,” Solas said, like he could actually feel it. “It will be safer for travelers now.”

“Good,” Mahanon said, finally stepping away from the artifact, his fingers buzzing from the magic and they hadn’t done that last time. He paused, listening so intently for the Well of Sorrows he totally missed Mihris speaking until Solas snapped something in Elvish at her.

“What?” Mahanon looked up to find the two mages staring each other down.

“We have achieved our goal and our alliance is at an end,” Mihris said.

“You found—”

“She may have whatever she found,” Mahanon said. “Her goal is the same as ours. And our alliance for the moment may have finished, but I hope you consider my offer of joining the Inquisition.”

She turned her head to look at him. “You would have me keep this?”

“You have as much right to it as any of us,” Mahanon said. “And I do want your help.”

“I shall consider it,” she promised. “Your Inquisition.”

“But you do not trust it yet,” Mahanon said with a wry smile.

“Not yet,” she agreed. “Though you have given me some faith in the organization. I shall consider it.”

“Thank you,” Mahanon said and paused, hesitating over the usual words he would say to any Dalish without second thought once upon a time. “May Mythal watch over you.”

“And over you,” she said, inclining her head before walking to the door, leaving them behind in the sickly light of the Veil Fire.

“Think we’re likely to find anything else here?” Mahanon asked.

“No,” Solas said, voice tight.

“Great,” Mahanon said, sheathing his sword. “Let’s keep going North then. I want to be at the camp next to the Horse Master’s house by sunset.”

When no one said anything he went for the entrance, back straight. They walked in silence for a while, finding the road again after their brief foray off it.

“Does it ever seem like a bad idea to follow the road directly?” Blackwall asked.

“Honestly I’d like some idiots to come after us,” Mahanon said.

“What if they’re not idiots but actually highly trained murderers?” Solas asked.

“Well then we can only hope we’re better trained murderers,” Mahanon said.

“That seems like asking for trouble,” Blackwall said.

“I am asking for trouble,” Mahanon replied and wished he sounded less annoyed. “I’d rather trouble come after me than a poor farmer who doesn’t even know how to hold a sword.”

“You and farmers,” Solas said and Mahanon made a rude gesture at him which made Solas frown but Sera giggled.

After that they walked in silence though Mahanon caught Sera opening her mouth like she was about to say something before deciding against it. Finally, she spoke, “I mean, so far you haven’t been really elfy or anything.”

Mahanon looked over at her but didn’t stop walking. “No?”

“I mean you got the,” and she gestured to his face. “But all that. I mean you don’t _believe_ in those gods do you?”

The Well of Sorrows hissed something but Mahanon ignored it to shrug. “Does it really matter, what I believe?”

“No,” she started to protest and changed her mind again. “Yeah, alright, maybe a little.”

“I don’t know,” Mahanon said and Solas stopped walking to whip around so fast it almost gave Mahanon whiplash. “I don’t know if I believe in them,” Mahanon said, and tilted his chin in challenge to Solas. “Solas. Do you have something to say about that?”

“You,” Solas started and stopped.

“What, because I’m Dalish and proud of my people?” Mahanon asked.

“Because of _that_ ,” Solas said, flicking a hand up to Mahanon’s face, much like Sera had moments ago, causing Mahanon to scowl. He remembered the feel of Solas’ fingers on his face, his denial of Solas’ offer. The fact he went out and got _more_ of Mythal’s tree after Solas’ revelation. “How can you say you do not _know_?”

They were in the middle of a random road on the Hinterlands, and Mahanon could only feel his anger surge inside him after so many weeks of watching Solas and having to pretend there was no second name in his mind. Of having Cassandra ask why he couldn’t allow for another god. Of the way people floundered and flailed in confusion, having not the faintest idea who the Dalish where or what they believed.

“Because even if our myths are true, it doesn’t matter who our gods were,” Mahanon said. “The Dalish are not the ancient elves, we are the people the gods used to watch over. If they really are locked away somewhere, we’d recognize them as little as they would us.”

“That’s hardly an orthodox view for the Dalish,” Solas said, almost a sneer. “Carrying the statues of your gods around and setting them up around camp, asking for their blessings.”

“Which we know they shall not hear,” Mahanon said, Sera having taken several steps away and biting one of her fingers to keep herself quiet. “Have you actually talked to that many of us? I believe in my people, in our traditions, in our right to _have_ our traditions. We have survived slavery and Blights and Exalted Marches since the gods left us. We will never submit and that is what I take pride in. Our traditions may have been based on the ancients, on our gods, but it’s like a language that has been translated a dozen times. The fact we are not our ancient ancestors does not _devalue_ who we are now. The ancient elves would never have to say the words, we will never submit, because they were the conquerors and rulers of their empire. But we have been slaves and we have been kicked out of every home we tried to build so we carry them with us instead. We’re still hunted and hated and we carry on anyway. Those are my people,” and he finally paused enough to suck in a deep breath.

“I,” Solas started.

“Those are my people,” Mahanon said, a bit softer, all the anger seeping out like water into dirt. “They are who I’m proud of. The gods would recognize me as little as I would them. They probably existed,” and he couldn’t look at Solas anymore, turning his head away. “But who knows what they really were, or really stood for. But I am Dalish and I stand for my clan and my people. Our gods have nothing to do with that.”

Solas looked floored, like he had never seen Mahanon before. “The gods—”

“I don’t care about the fucking gods,” Mahanon said, a snap entering his voice again. “Whatever they were, where ever they may be, they are silent to us now. Lost to us,” and he remembered the screams of the elves as their world was torn apart, the memories of ghosts trapped in the Fade. “We make our own lives now, our own paths. Maybe there are other gods, or all gods are just corrupted men. Maybe the Maker did turn his face from us. Maybe it’s another deity entirely, who laughs at our clumsy attempts to figure them out. It doesn’t matter! _We_ matter!” He stopped himself again. “So, yes. I don’t know.”

He thought he heard Blackwall behind him mutter, “Andraste’s tits,” but since he’d looked back at Solas he couldn’t look away again.

“You are not very usual for your people,” Solas said, something too deep in his eyes and Mahanon wondered if he had heard the same cries in the Fade.

“Maybe so,” Mahanon said, his voice gone scratchy. “Maybe we’d surprise you yet.” He yanked his gaze away again. “I’m sorry, Sera,” and she startled before frowning at him. “That wasn’t about you at all.”

And he started walking faster just to get away from the conversation.

-0-

That night he lay curled up next to the fire, watching the flames crackle.

“Did we finally get the horses for the Inquisition?” Solas asked, and Mahanon startled, lifting his head up and blinking blearily at him. Everyone else at the camp had been giving him a wide berth as he lay there, looking a thousand yards into the distance.

“What?”

“The horses,” Solas asked. “You were quite keen on acquiring them.”

“Yeah,” Mahanon said. “Master Dennet even agreed to come to Haven and take care of them. Doesn’t trust us with it or something.”

“That’s kind of him,” Solas said sarcastically.

“Yeah,” Mahanon murmured and frowned when Solas sat down beside him. Hesitantly he unfolded himself to sit up with his legs crossed. “Is there something else?”

“I’m sorry,” Solas said and Mahanon stared at him.

“What?”

Solas scowled. “Is an apology that surprising?”

“What are you sorry for?” Mahanon asked.

“I don’t know that much about the Dalish,” Solas said.

“All that dreaming in the Fade and you never traveled our roads?” Mahanon asked, leaning back on one of his arms, the other one loose in his lap.

“Apparently not far enough,” Solas said. “I did not mean—”

“I’m sure there’s a lot you didn’t mean,” Mahanon said.

Solas gave him a long look. “You’re not making this easy, are you?”

“Was I supposed to?” Mahanon asked, arching a brow and Solas shrugged. Mahanon bit the inside of his cheek. “It’s simply that—everyone here hates the Dalish. They may not hate me, specifically, but they were raised to think we stole their children and ate their hearts under a full moon in the forest, or whatever mad stories the Shemlen tell about us now.”

“Do you eat children?” Solas asked and Mahanon stared at him. “Apologies.”

“They hate us,” Mahanon said. “And you and Sera hate us too.”

Solas opened his mouth and then slowly shut it.

“Yeah,” Mahanon sighed. “But I will not stop being proud of my people. We fight and we survive and we keep going when by all rights we should have just given up and settled down in some city to be walked all over. I don’t care if you respect our myths, if you think they’re wrong, or whatever it is that makes you so angry. But can you at least respect our history?”

“I can respect you survived,” Solas said, looking down. “And that you have gone through much since the time of the ancient elves.”

“Well, that’s a start,” Mahanon sighed. “Maybe in general what you need is to actually know more people, not just the memories in the Fade of people.”

“Is that so?” Solas asked, looking over at him.

“Sure,” Mahanon said. “You could start with Cassandra. She’s a solid sort.”

“Not yourself?” Solas asked and Mahanon hesitated too long. “Good night, then,” Solas said when Mahanon was silent. His nod was stiff as he rose, walking away and leaving Mahanon sitting alone in front of the fire.

He didn’t call Solas back to stop him walking away. Instead he sat there and watched the flames, listening to the Well of Sorrows murmur in his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear we're leaving the Hinterlands now and not coming back (except maybe, briefly, later). 
> 
> Mahanon has a pretty complicated relationship with Dalish customs now but frankly I'm still mad how hard it is to be proud of being Dalish in the game. Sure! The Dalish gods weren't who everyone thought they were, but like that at no point invalidates the Dalish culture or the struggles they've gone through, or the fact they're hunted and hated. They move constantly so the humans don't get annoyed and come after them. I mean... what does it matter what's revealed about the ancient elves? So sure the revelations would matter but not in a way that would actually devalue their culture of survival, Bioware. Bioware. Are you listening to me Bioware? Get back here...
> 
> Anyway, your song for this chapter is "Always" by Saliva, not because it's super specific to this chapter but because it came up from the depths of my music history today and hit me in the side of the head with the love/hate feelings. It's pretty good for Mahanon at his most angry.


	13. Chapter 13

He only stopped in Haven for a night, rounding up Varric and Cassandra and Vivienne on the way back out. Solas had stood next to the gate as Master Dennet fussed over the horses they were going to take.

“And you have ridden before?” he asked Mahanon for the eighth time.

“Yes,” Mahanon said, sitting easy on the horse even as Dennet continued to flutter around.

“You’re positive you can handle—”

“Yes,” Mahanon said, and didn’t have the heart to tell Dennet of all the strange creatures destined for his stables. After riding the Bog Unicorn to the Winter Palace to make a statement, he figured he could handle a regular chestnut.

“Riding it an interesting skill for a Dalish to have,” Vivienne remarked and Mahanon shrugged without bothering to explain. But when he looked over Solas stood there, watching them with his arms crossed over his chest.

Mahanon urged his horse over there, if only to show Dennet he really _could_ ride the horse. “You look bothered.”

“Why would I be bothered?” Solas asked.

“I wouldn’t hazard to guess,” Mahanon said. “If you’re worried about your safety I’m pretty sure I’m taking the biggest risks to you with me.”

“The circle mage and the seeker?” Solas asked wryly. “You forgot the Templar you’re leaving behind.”

“Cullen? He won’t try turning you in, promise.”

“If you say so,” Solas said and paused. “That’s not why I’m concerned.”

“So you are worried,” Mahanon said. “About what?”

“You’re the only one who can close rifts,” Solas started.

“Aw,” Mahanon said, tone light and teasing and Solas frowned at him. “Are you worried about me out of your sight?”

“I have been with you on all your journeys before this,” Solas said.

“You need to take a break, get some rest,” Mahanon said.

Solas’ brow jumped up at that. “And when, exactly, will you find your own rest?”

“When I’m dead, probably,” Mahanon said, the same lame joke he’d used on Varric days earlier, and from Varric’s sharp look over at him, Varric knew it just as well. “Which won’t be any time in the next week. While you’re here, see if you can find anything out about that artifact we activated, or if there’s any information on tears in the Fade that have been closed in the past.”

“Research,” Solas said flatly.

“Sure,” Mahanon said, as he lifted the horse reins and urged his chestnut around and on the road from Haven to the Wounded Coast.

-0-

Vivienne wasn’t much impressed by the Wounded Coast but Mahanon caught the looks Varric kept giving the ocean, longing painted plainly on his face.

“You miss Kirkwall,” Mahanon said, not a question as their horses picked along the seaside cliffs on their way to the Inquisition forward camp that Scout Harding had already set up.

“It’s weird,” Varric said. “Knowing it’s right on the other side of that water there. Not that I enjoyed the trip over or anything, but I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

“You will,” Mahanon said and Varric laughed, a bit more shaky than usual. “Someday, you will.”

“Sure, if there’s still a world at the end of this,” Varric said and Mahanon wanted to reach over to him but he kept his hands to himself. “You know,” Varric continued, obviously trying to change the subject. “Curly didn’t much enjoy the ride over.”

“I don’t think I’d be all that comfortable on that ocean either,” Mahanon said, glancing down at the waves. He didn’t have Cullen’s intense claustrophobia but when he had traveled to Kirkwall he spent almost as much time as Cullen did on the deck, mostly throwing up. Luckily when he’d come to the Conclave a few months ago his Clan had been south enough he was able to take the roads instead of a boat.

“It’s not so bad,” Varric said.

“Speak for yourself, I get seasick,” Mahanon said.

“Then that is not a sea you will enjoy,” Cassandra remarked.

Mahanon realized a moment later his hands were shaking on the reins as they came around the next corner and dismounted to enter the Inquisition camp, Scout Harding coming out to meet them.

-0-

“Are we going to help them?” Cassandra asked, when they stood on the beach, watching Iron Bull and the Chargers take down several Tevinter mages.

“No,” Mahanon said, arms crossed over his chest. “This is supposed to be an audition after all.”

At one point he saw Bull glance over, noticing him standing off to the side and watching, the others a little behind him and even across the battlefield Mahanon could see his grin. But it didn’t take long at all for the Chargers to mop up the Tevinter group and soon enough Mahanon found himself picking his way across the coast to where Bull stood next to Krem.

“So you made it,” he said, looking over. Now that Mahanon was closer it seemed like he finally got a look at his armor and Mahanon could see the exact moment he realized he didn’t recognize what it was made of.

“So I did,” he said, arms crossed over his chest again, like he was holding himself together. “Impressive work.”

“We do a good job,” Bull said, checking his axe before hefting it over one shoulder.

“Yes,” Mahanon agreed.

“But did we impress you enough?” Bull asked, tone light and eyes sharp.

“Probably,” Mahanon said. “Your crew certainly seems to be worth _something_. But are you worth what you’re asking?”

“Yeah,” Bull said.

“Very confident,” Mahanon remarked.

“Aren’t you after that display?” Bull asked, spinning the axe in one hand. “Besides, you’re not just getting the crew, you’re getting _me_. Bodyguard, head buster, whatever you need me for.”

Mahanon pressed his mouth together firmly. “Symbol to everyone not to mess with me?”

“If you like,” Bull said, and he was smiling like he found Mahanon charming and Mahanon found one of his hands dropping to press against his stomach as if that would help the ache there at all.  Or keep him from throwing up. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Mahanon said.

“One more thing,” Iron Bull said, holding a hand up. “Might piss you off, might be okay.”

“Alright,” Mahanon said, as Bull took several steps further away from everyone else and Mahanon followed him.

“You know much about the Qun?” Bull asked.

“A bit,” Mahanon lied.

“Ever hear much about the Ben-Hassrath?” Bull asked.

“Spies,” Mahanon said shortly, pretending not to know what Bull was about to say.

“Hey, that’s not bad,” Bull said. “You know more than you were letting on. Yeah, I’m one of them.”

“So a spy wants an in with the Inquisition,” Mahanon said. “That’s a fairly big catch.”

“Right, but it’s mostly because we’re concerned with the Breach and everything,” Bull said. “Look. I’ll send reports back, let them know how things are going.”

“Do I get to see these reports?” Mahanon asked.

“If you like,” Bull said. “We can work something out. But, I mean, it’s only fair if I’m sending off information I’ll also be giving you information. We know a lot more about ‘vints than you do.”

“Right,” Mahanon said, focused on just getting through the conversation over what he was saying. “Well, I suppose we have ourselves a deal. I’ll get you in touch with Josephine about the payments.”

“You sure look uneasy about this,” Bull remarked, considering Mahanon.

“You did just reveal I was recruiting a spy,” Mahanon said. “You’ll have to forgive me feeling a bit uneasy about that.”

“But you’re willing to do it nonetheless,” Bull said.

“Yes,” Mahanon agreed.

“Well, alright then,” Bull said and turned back around. “Krem! We just got hired. Get everyone on the road.”

“But Chief!” Krem protested. “We just got the casks open!”

“Well close them back up again,” Bull said, but there was such fondness in his voice Mahanon found himself pressing a hand to his stomach again. “Don’t you ‘vints use blood magic?” He started to walk away but turned back. “Okay, I can’t help but ask. I can’t for the life of me figure out what your armor is made of.”

“I don’t know,” Mahanon lied. “It looked like this after I can out of the Fade.”

“Huh,” Bull said, giving Mahanon another look over. “That’s one hell of an image booster, isn’t it? You should advertise that more.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” Mahanon said, because that was in fact the reason he had built his armor out of veilquartz to begin with. It declared his mastery over the rifts and the shifting colors caught everyone’s attention when he walked into a room. But Bull kept staring at him and his eyes were drifting higher. “You’re not about to ask about the flowers, are you?” Mahanon sighed.

Bull laughed. “Alright, I won’t. It’s just its own statement, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” Mahanon said, Cassandra walking over to him as they were apparently taking too long.

“Well, it’s all one hell of a statement. See you back at Haven,” Bull said, before he nodded at Cassandra and turned back around to yell some more orders, Krem chirping snark back at him.

“Did you hire him?” Cassandra asked.

“Yes,” Mahanon said and after a moment he grinned. “He’s a spy, by the way.”

He shouldn’t have enjoyed the way Cassandra ranted and railed the rest of the time they spent on the Wounded Coast, even as he twisted together a Crest of Mercy and recruited an entire mercenary band into the Inquisition. Not even the rifts quieted Cassandra down for long, and Vivienne kept giving him long sideways looks, while Varric seemed caught between disturbed and amused.

“You’re going to like him,” Mahanon insisted.   

“How could you possibly even know that?” Cassandra said. “And what does it matter if I like him anyway, if he’s a _spy_?”

“I think the question is how good of a spy he is,” Varric said. “After all, isn’t it sorta bad spy form to tell everyone that’s what you are?”

“He has a good sense of humor,” Mahanon said.

“Like yours?” Cassandra drawled. “They’ll put that in the history books too. The Inquisitor and the Qunari spy were _hilarious_ the whole way through their inevitable betrayal.”

“It’s not inevitable,” Mahanon protested once he got his breath back.

“Very likely,” Cassandra snapped back and Mahanon somehow managed a smile.

He woke up that night with the Mark flaring wildly in his tent, and all three of his companion’s heads stuck in his tent.

“We could see the light show,” Varric said and Mahanon was choking on air, the smell of the Darvaarad in his nose. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he said, even though each breath was basically a panicked hiccup. He covered his left hand with his right like that would stop the wild spurting that echoed how the Mark had acted at the end there, right before it almost killed him. 

“You don’t look very fine, dear,” Vivienne said.

“The Mark hasn’t done this since you stabilized the Breach,” Cassandra said. “It hasn’t flared like this at all, has it?” and she looked at Varric, like she knew Mahanon was probably going to lie to her.

“No,” Mahanon said. “It hasn’t. It hasn’t. It doesn’t even hurt right now, it’s just,” and he looked down, as the light flickered, angry and bright, through the fingers of his right hand. He let out a long breath and closed his eyes. “I was just having a nightmare.”

“You seem to have an awful lot of those,” Varric said.

“Apparently people aren’t meant to walk into the Fade and right out again,” Mahanon said, the only excuse he could come up with. He certainly couldn't tell them the nightmare was about the very Qunari spy they just recruited. He paused, and the three of them just stared back at him. “What time is it even?”

“Hour after midnight or so,” Varric said.

Mahanon let out a long breath again. “So far too early to head back to Haven.”

“A bit,” Cassandra agreed. “Unless you want to ride through the night.”

“Alright, you can all go back to sleep now, I’m fine,” Mahanon said and after another moment Varric and Vivienne ducked away, presumably going back to their own tents. “Cassandra,” Mahanon said.

But instead she crawled into the tent and took his hand. “Does it really not hurt?” she asked.

“No,” Mahanon said, and the Mark was finally starting to settle back down into its usual glow, giving out only occasional frantic pulses.

“You were screaming,” Cassandra said.

“Must have been the nightmares,” Mahanon said.

“I was there when the Breach was wreaking havoc on this,” Cassandra said. “The others didn’t see much of it.”

“It’s fine,” Mahanon said. “Honestly. It was the nightmare.”

“Will you sleep again tonight?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Mahanon admitted and after another moment she sighed and let go of his hand.

“You should try.”

“I will,” Mahanon promised and she finally crawled back outside.

But he never fell back asleep and instead they found him in the morning sitting in the middle of camp, where he’d watched the stars most of the night. He fell asleep on his horse in the afternoon as they headed back to Haven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is some [M!Inquisitor/Solas](http://victoriousscarf.tumblr.com/post/180926852697/grotesqueerie-danaduchy-solas-x) dialogue recorded and then cut because like Bioware loves cutting bi romances as much as they love killing off Dalish clans. (Insert long style rant about Solas not being race or gender locked and how they already undermined the pan trickster trope by the structure of his actual goddamn romance).


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mahanon has a panic attack. And he and Cullen fumble through talking about PTSD flashbacks without knowing what they actually are. Please proceed accordingly for your own comfort.

Josephine whisked Mahanon straight off his horse into the Chantry so he only had a moment to notice Bull and Krem having set up their tent next to the horse stable. Bull waved at him with a cheeky grin and Mahanon pressed a hand to his stomach again.

“Are you alright?” Josephine asked. “You’re not feeling ill are you?”

“Fine,” Mahanon said. “I think I just ate something that disagreed with me.”

“This can wait if you need rest,” Josephine said and Mahanon laughed.

“Can it really?” he asked.

“Yes, alright, no it really can’t,” she said, looking down at her clipboard.

“I’m fine,” Mahanon insisted again. “What did you need?”

It was dark by the time Mahanon left the Chantry, head spinning with diplomatic nonsense. He headed straight to the tavern, going the long way around to avoid walking past Solas’ usual hut. He hoped Sera might be willing to have a drink, or that Varric might be squeezed into a corner there.

But when he pushed the door open, snow blowing in with the wind at his back he froze, because the Chargers were all around the bar, Dalish with an arm slung over Stitches, gesturing with one hand as she explained something and he rolled his eyes. Grim was ignoring Krem who kept making shadow puppets on the tavern wall and for a second Mahanon couldn’t hear anything at all.

He just stood there, staring, and feeling his heart ache.

Sound came roaring back and he shook his head, ducking his chin down and turning to escape.

“Hey, Boss,” Bull said, having come in behind him and Mahanon startled back. “Boss, you okay?” Bull asked, and his voice was warm and concerned.

 _“It’s nothing personal, Bas,”_ Bull had said, like that made anything better at all with his axe pointed at Mahanon’s heart.

“I,” Mahanon started to say, but his chest felt too tight, like he couldn’t breathe.

“Seriously,” Bull said, squinting down at him in the low tavern light. “Are you alright?”

Instead of trying to answer again, Mahanon slid past him and out the door, stumbling into the blowing wind and dark sky. He caught himself with one hand against the wall and pressed his right hand over his chest, heart pounding and unable to catch his breath.

“Hey, Boss—” Bull said, having followed him.

“Don’t!” Mahanon yelled and realized in the next second his left hand was flaring with light again, violent and wild and exactly like the Mark was on the verge of breaking down. But unlike every time the Mark had almost broken down, there was no pain to accompany its wild pulses.

“Don’t what?” Bull asked, still behind him and when Mahanon glanced over his shoulder Bull was staring at his hand and the frantic light green light. “What’s wrong with your hand?”

“It,” Mahanon said, and his heart beat had almost gone back down, his hands had almost stopped shaking. “I don’t—” Except every time he dreamed about Bull, every time he found himself standing in that hallway, with Bull looking at him like there had never been a moment of warmth or affection between them, the Mark started to flicker like it did then.

He was causing it to flicker, with his own memories.

Like the way sometimes he turned to Solas and for a second all he could see was fire and all he could taste was ash as he suffocated.

“Oh,” he managed, still holding himself against the wall.

“What can I do?” Bull asked, coming back into his line of sight.

“It’s not,” Mahanon started.

“What’s going on here?” Solas asked, jogging over from where he must have noticed the light from the Mark. “Mahanon, what is—”

The Mark flared again wildly. Any breath Mahanon had gotten back disappeared in a moment, because he could remember the press of Solas’ mouth as he gently held Mahanon’s hand, twining their fingers together as he pulled the Mark from him entirely.

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, couldn’t even stand as he sagged against the wall, hand still pressed against his chest, as if that would do anything through his armor. He thought he felt someone’s hands on his face, thought he heard someone call out but it was all too distant from him.

The first voice that penetrated was Cassandra as she grabbed the front of his armor and hauled him back to his feet. “Herald?” she demanded, sheer panic in her voice and without giving it a thought Mahanon curled himself against her chest, pressing his face against her shoulder and holding on. He didn't know how long he stayed like that, the world pressing against him like a physical weight. 

She froze, but her hands came up a moment later, pressing against his back and his hair. “Herald?” she asked, softer as Mahanon finally stopped shaking. He left his face there, hidden against her. “What happened?” Cassandra whispered, even though he could hear the chatter of onlookers who must have come running.

“I,” Mahanon started and shook his head. He realized a moment later she had started to slow her breathing, long and deep breaths and pressed against her he started to match her.

He felt one of her hands make a sharp motion in the air, and the sound of other voices lessened.

“I don’t know what happened,” Solas said and Mahanon felt another shudder go through him just to hear his voice. “I came because the Mark—”

“You’re not currently helping,” Cassandra snapped.

“Another minute,” Mahanon murmured, clinging to her and she still let him. “I’ll be fine, just a minute.”

 “It’s alright,” Cassandra said, like she dealt with people melting down on her all the time.

Finally, Mahanon stepped back, but he couldn’t quite raise his head.

“What happened?” Cassandra asked, still standing closest to him.

“I think I,” and he gestured behind him. “I’m sorry. I need—”

“Do you want me to check the Mark?” Solas asked, stepping forward. “It hasn’t acted like that since—”

“It’s fine,” Mahanon said, taking several quick steps backward to get further away from him, holding his left hand against his chest protectively. “There’s no pain. I think it was reacting to me.”

“And why were you,” Solas started, and Mahanon saw Bull watching him, the light from the tavern behind his broad frame.

“I need to go,” Mahanon said. “I don’t—I can’t—I’ll talk to you in the morning,” and he fled, for once not worried about his image, about holding things together while the world fell apart. He took his bruised heart and he ran to hide it.

But only a few minutes after he reached his hut, having only had time to curl up on the bed with his back to the wall, a knock came at the door.

“No,” he whispered, too softly for whoever it was to hear. He hadn’t taken any of his armor off, needing the weight of it to keep himself together.

He couldn’t quite make himself move as the door pushed open, but he blinked in surprise when Cullen was the one to duck inside.

“Do you need something?” he asked, voice scratchy.

“Cassandra sent me,” Cullen said.

“Why?” Mahanon asked and Cullen came over, standing beside the bed.

“Why did she send me, or why was I the one she sent?” Cullen asked, arching a brow.

“Mostly the second,” Mahanon said, knees against his chest and his arms around them as he watched Cullen.

“I think she,” and Cullen reached back to rub the back of his neck. “Well. I think there was a time she had to wait for me to stop shaking after a nightmare too.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” Mahanon said, voice flat. “It wasn’t a nightmare.”

“But you were acting like you just woke up from one,” Cullen said and Mahanon stared at him a long moment with only a single candle to light his room. He could see the tenseness of Cullen’s shoulders, the way he kept looking at the window as if to assure himself the sky was still there.

“Sit down,” Mahanon murmured. “You can see the window better if you sit.”

Cullen gave him a look, like he was alarmed Mahanon noticed, but he accepted the invitation, sitting down gingerly on the side of the bed.

They sat there a moment together in silence.

“Do you ever,” Mahanon started and stopped, but Cullen sat and waited. “The Circle. Kirkwall. You saw things.”

“Yes,” Cullen said.

“And do you ever—find yourself—like you forget where you are, and for a moment you’re back there,” Mahanon said. “In the worst moment you can imagine, and it’s like you can taste it again, like you can smell it again, and you’re trapped there, in the worst moment of your life. And you don’t know how to get out of it, but eventually you do. But it could happen, again, just over and over, like you never _really_ survived past that moment.”

When he looked up Cullen was staring at him, wide eyed.

“The nightmares were bad enough,” Mahanon whispered.

“I,” Cullen nodded. “I do—you’re trapped there. No matter how much time has passed, it’s not let go of you.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck again. “I don’t know what happened to you. Or if you’re referring to the moment you came out of the Fade. I don’t know how recent this was. It does get… better. Sometimes.”

“Find yourself there less?” Mahanon asked.

“On good days,” Cullen said, and his hands had dropped into his lap. He was holding them tight together and Mahanon could see the slight tremor. “The good days start to become more than the bad days.”

Mahanon’s eyes flickered from his face to his hands before he slowly unfolded himself, inching closer so they were sitting on the side of the bed, legs pressed together. He reached out, taking Cullen’s hands and making Cullen look over.

“Your hands keep shaking,” he said.

“Yes,” Cullen agreed.

“We’re going to make it, right?” Mahanon asked.

“If one of us is, the other is going to too,” Cullen said. “We’re in this together I guess,” and that got a dry chuckle from Mahanon. “I knew about the nightmares. I didn’t know how bad things were.”

“Most of the time I feel like I’m drowning,” Mahanon said, looking at their hands instead of Cullen. “But there’s too much to do. I can’t stop, or I’m going to sink. It’s better just to keep going.”

“You’ll have to stop eventually,” Cullen said.

“I know,” Mahanon said and closed his eyes. “Tomorrow, we’ll need to talk about the Mages and Templars again.”

“You’re exhausted,” Cullen said. “That can wait.”

“I know,” Mahanon said, eyes still closed.

Cullen was silent a moment before he turned his hand over in Mahanon’s to squeeze his. “You should take all that armor off and sleep.”

“Do you manage to sleep without your armor on?” Mahanon asked.

“Sometimes,” Cullen said and Mahanon almost smiled before he opened his eyes and let go of Cullen’s hands.

“Thank you,” he said.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Cullen said, rising, and Mahanon almost asked him to stay, just to have someone there, just not to be alone. But he bit his tongue and Cullen left.

He sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, and eventually curled up on top of the cot without taking a single piece of his armor off. He slept, fitfully, but better than he had in weeks.

In the morning he found a looking glass and taking the Ardent Blossom out of his hair, he combed it carefully before finding a knife and cutting it. He had learned to braid it when he had only one hand, and had worn it longer than he had when Inquisitor. Now he trimmed it back to his jawline and fussed it back into place.

Putting the Ardent Blossom back into place he squared his shoulders as he looked at his reflection. He may not be the Inquisitor yet, but he was the Herald of Andraste and he might want to fall apart, but he wouldn’t.

Haven was only days away from falling and he had to know what to do.

-0-

He found Bull before he went back into the Chantry. Bull sat on a pile of boxes, watching Grim and Krem spar. The instant he saw Mahanon approaching, he jumped up.

“Good morning,” Mahanon said.

Bull inclined his head slightly. “Good morning,” he replied. “You know, I was thinking about last night, and—”

“I knew a Qunari once,” Mahanon cut him off. “There were an influx of them in the Free Marches not too long ago, as you must know,” and Bull’s smile was thin. “We, I thought we were close for a while.”

Bull crossed his arms over his chest and watched Mahanon silently.

“We weren’t, I was stupid,” Mahanon said. “We hurt each other. It doesn’t matter. He called me _bas_.”

Something flickered in Bull’s eye, like he confirmed what he had suspected. “I called you boss.”

“Find a different nickname,” Mahanon said, voice flat.

“Did you love him?” Bull asked after a beat.

“Did I,” Mahanon started, because wouldn’t that neatly tie everything up in a bow. He could pretend his broken heart came from an imaginary Qunari. “No,” he said. “I trusted him though.”

“Do you trust me?” Bull asked.

“Not even remotely,” Mahanon said.

“Yeah,” Bull said with a laugh, leaning back. “That’s probably for the best.” He looked Mahanon over again. “Is this going to be a problem?”

“What?”

“The guy that fucked you up,” Bull said, watching him too intently.

“I’ll try not to let it,” Mahanon said. “The world’s ending. We don’t really have the time for bruised or broken hearts.” He took another breath, and the air was fresh and cold, and his Mark was quiet. “It is good to have you here. I look forward to working together.”

He turned to walk away and Bull called after him. “Hey, I am sorry about last night.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Mahanon said, looking over his shoulder.

“You couldn’t even hear us calling your name,” Bull said and Mahanon felt a shiver go through him. He had been too weak, too obvious, and both Solas and the Iron Bull had seen. “Don’t worry, Flowers, I’ll be more careful next time.”

“Flow—” Mahanon narrowed his eyes at him. “Seriously. That’s what you’re going with?”

Bull shrugged. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep working on it.”

“Yeah, you’re not calling me that in public,” Mahanon said, shaking his head.

“Sure thing, Flowers,” Bull said, giving a purposefully sloppy salute and Mahanon gave him another look before shaking his head and flicking a hand at him as he turned away. He heard Bull’s chuckle as he left, and knew he should talk to Solas at some point too.

But he veered for the Chantry instead, giving Solas a wide berth and he turned his head as the heavy doors of the Chantry closed behind him.

Solas had been approaching him, and watched him as the door slammed shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone recently said they were surprised how well Mahanon was handling things and I was like yes... but he's also sliding down a step cliff right for a full blown panic attack. The Fall of Haven is coming, and he's gathered up his betrayers again. He sorta needed to have a mental breakdown to pick himself back up again. Like you have to hit low to start getting back up again.
> 
> Also I've updated five times in the last six days. We're riding this inspiration until it dies.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is one of those stories that tends to pick up songs like sticky tape, but I was relaxing and reading before bed last night when ["Brave Enough"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zMCvfefNXXA%22) by Clannad came out of nowhere so I thought I'd share with everyone. It's especially fitting for this chapter.

Despite a long night and possibly longer day listening to Cullen and Leliana snipe at each other across the war table, Mahanon could not sleep.

Instead of wandering Haven he found himself hiding in the Chantry, as if Solas wouldn’t wander in them if he really was determined to find him. Instead it seemed that he was sulking and thus Mahanon was alone.

For a while at least, until Cassandra finally tracked him down.

She paused in the doorway of the war room, Mahanon lying in the middle of the table, having shoved most of Cullen’s markers to one side. His hands were folded over his stomach as he looked at the ceiling. “Cullen is going to be upset.”

“Probably,” Mahanon agreed, still looking at the ceiling.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Cassandra asked, mild, like the answer wasn’t obvious and staring them both in the face.

“I’m worried,” Mahanon said, because it was true.

“About the Templars or Mages?” Cassandra asked, leaning against the doorframe and crossing her arms.

“Yes,” Mahanon said, because in part that was it.

But it was also Haven.

Every time he watched more people enter the town through the gate or set up their tents outside the walls because they had no where else to go, he felt his stomach twist.

So much had happened since Haven fell, and yet it still burned like an ember under his chest bone, a mistake he had never been able to lay to rest.

But, and he found himself tapping his fingers against his chest in agitation. If Haven did not fall, what would happen to the Inquisition? How much could he change before it all fell apart. Haven created the myth of the Inquisition even more than his surviving the Enclave did.

Would that ever be worth the sacrifice?

Would not watching the city burn change the future?

Would he have to stand there and let it happen all over again, knowing he could have warned people to run long before their lives were in danger?

“Where do you go?” Cassandra asked and he finally turned his head, though he didn’t rise from the table.

“What?”

“Sometimes you go still,” Cassandra said. “And you look like you’re miles away.”

“Do I do that often?” Mahanon asked lightly, as if he could make a joke of it or brush it off.

Cassandra stared at him before she nodded. “You do.”

“Ah,” Mahanon said, and went back to staring at the ceiling. “I’m probably worrying.”

“You take the Inquisition very personally,” Cassandra said.

“Of course I do,” Mahanon said, finally pushing himself up. “You gave me the choices, you don’t always agree but you never step in or stop me. The entire Inquisition has been built around the Herald of Andraste and people look to me to be a leader, a savior, blessed by the Maker and his Bride and ready to protect them. How could I not take the Inquisition seriously?”

He turned, swinging his legs over the table and bracing his hands on the edge, watching her. He’d left his breastplate behind in his hut, along with the Ardent Blossom, but his boots were still lined with veilquartz buttons, and he could see Cassandra’s eyes follow the strange light of them when he moved.

“You have done a good job,” Cassandra said. “Without you, I’m not actually sure what the Inquisition would be. You have such heart, and determination.”

Mahanon opened his mouth and couldn’t think of anything to say so he dropped his head, his hair swinging into his face.

“Whatever you decide, it will be the right choice,” Cassandra said and Mahanon gave a mirthless laugh.

“Are you certain of that?”

When he looked up, Cassandra had stepped closer. She reached out, taking his shoulders and he tilted his head back to meet her eyes. “Yes.”

“You are rather a force of nature, aren’t you?” Mahanon asked.

She quirked a brow at him. “Like you’re not.”

“Flatterer,” Mahanon said.

“You started it,” she said, and stepped back.

“You do have a preference though,” Mahanon said, watching her.

“Of course I do,” she said. “Mages are unpredictable, and they started this rebellion.” Mahanon pressed his mouth together but didn’t say anything. “Without Templars or order, can we really trust them?”

“Maybe,” Mahanon said. “Maybe not. But you do trust the Templars.” It wasn’t a question.

“I did,” Cassandra said. “Their behavior was… concerning.”

“When they left the Chantry,” Mahanon said.

“Something is wrong in their ranks,” Cassandra said. “But they are still Templars.”

Mahanon looked down. “We’ve been around this circle for hours,” he said. “On one hand, on the other, on another hand.”

“It is still your choice,” Cassandra said.

Mahanon sighed, hunching his shoulders. Last time, he had bit his tongue every time Cullen or Cassandra had insulted mages, remembering too clearly the way Ellana had followed him around, showing off whatever spell she had learned from the Keeper that day, or the way the Keeper used magic to heal the Hallas of the clan, or to quiet their steps as they passed through certain areas of the forest.

Yet when it came to it, he had agreed with them to approach the Templars, never even making it to Redcliffe.

The thought had been gnawing away at him since he woke up, the sky clear and unmarked and his hand returned to him. Dorian had told him about Alexius, about the magic that made time pass wrong. But in the end, it seemed that Alexius and his magic ate each other up until there was nothing left.

Until he woke up in the past.

Was the unchecked magic what caused this? Or would approaching it tear apart whatever spell brought him here? Would the mages even be able to close the Breach?

He thought of Barris again, his smile and his warmth and his determination and pressed a hand against his chest at the thought of him dying or being turned against his own will into a Red Templar.

If he just retraced his old steps, would he end exactly the same way he had, blood in his lungs, the sky falling above him?

If he didn’t, would the world even last that long, or would they fall to the Breach that never closed?

“You did it again,” Cassandra said and he brought his eyes back up.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not a problem, “she said, shaking her head. “Your burden is heavy.”

“Yes,” Mahanon said, not disagreeing because every time he thought about which option would be worse, he felt heavy enough to sink into the Earth. “Cassandra?”

“Yes?” she asked, looking back to him after having walked around the table, considering the various markers Mahanon had shoved aside.

“Do you trust me?” Mahanon asked, the fires of Haven in his mind, the tang of Red Lyrium in the air.

“Yes,” Cassandra said.

“When did that change?” Mahanon asked, looking over his shoulder.

She shrugged. “When you proved yourself worthy of it.”

“I hadn’t noticed I’d done that,” Mahanon said.

“You did,” she said, like it might be that simple and Mahanon almost wanted to remind her of when she pointed a sword at his throat. “You have determination and heart, remember?”

“Is that enough to trust?” Mahanon asked, a bit marveling.

Her brow went up again. “Do you not often find yourself trusting people?”

Mahanon paused a moment far too long, staring at her. “No,” he said finally.

She seemed to accept that. “You should try and sleep,” she said. “Maybe after putting all these markers back.”

“I don’t know,” Mahanon said. “I thought I might give Sera a heads up for when Cullen comes in. I think she’d get a kick out of his reaction.”

“You encourage her bad behavior,” Cassandra said and Mahanon gave her a grin that made her roll her eyes.

A few moments later he walked outside the Chantry, the night air freezing cold. He blew on the tips of his fingers and then tilted his head back, looking at the Breach, his breath misting in the night air.

“Herald,” Solas said from beside him and Mahanon turned his head.

“Herald?” he asked. “Not my name?”

Solas tilted his head slightly. “You have been avoiding me.”

“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t call me by my name,” Mahanon said.

“Is that what you want?” Solas asked and Mahanon turned more fully to him, watching his eyes drop to his chest. Even after everything, he couldn’t help the tiny flutter in his stomach as Solas seemed to notice he was only wearing his under armor.

Sometimes, when Solas had been in the mood, he would hook his fingers in the laces at Mahanon’s back, and use them to pull him back against Solas for a kiss. Usually it had only been when the others were too far ahead to notice, or when they were walking the edges of some camp or another at night. It had not been often, because even before he left him, Solas had rarely touched him. No matter what he professed to fell, he had kept himself distant and Mahanon felt his fingers twitch with the old, sore anger.

“Yes, that’s what I want,” he lied.

“Then, Mahanon,” Solas said, taking a step toward him. “Why did I make it worse?”

“What?” Mahanon asked, feeling stupid.

“You were almost calmed down,” Solas said. “The Mark had almost calmed down. Until you heard my voice.”

“Do you think I fear or hate you?” Mahanon asked, throat dry. He couldn’t take his eyes away from Solas.

“I do not think you like me,” Solas said and Mahanon’s mouth opened. “I do not know what you feel for me. But why did I make it _worse_?”

“I don’t know,” Mahanon lied. For once he didn’t taste ash, just felt the old pain. “I don’t really remember much of what happened.”

Solas frowned, obviously displeased. “And your Mark?” he asked, gesturing to Mahanon’s hand. “It truly does not hurt?”

“No,” Mahanon shook his head. “You really think I do not care for you?” he asked, voice breaking in suspicious ways.

Solas gave him a disbelieving look. “I would hardly hazard a guess at how you feel about me,” he said, stiff. When Mahanon couldn’t come up with a response to that, too frozen, Solas shook his head. “It is late. You should have been sleeping.”

“So should you,” Mahanon said. “I thought you liked to dream?”

“I do,” Solas said, giving him another annoyed look.

“Right,” Mahanon floundered.

“Good night, Mahanon,” Solas said, too much emphasis on his name and Mahanon almost had to press his hand to his chest again.

“Good night,” he whispered and watched as Solas walked away.

He stood in the snow and night sky of Haven, and thought about fire and Barris’ smile and Dorian’s ramblings on magic and wished he had never woken up with the weight of all the future on his shoulders. He wanted to chase after Solas and burrow himself back into his arms, just to have someone hold him.

Instead he waited until Cullen appeared at the Chantry door, mere minutes before sunrise.

“Herald,” Cullen said in some surprise.

“The Templars will not deal with us,” Mahanon said. “And the noble houses will not pressure them until we appear.”

“Yes, as we covered yesterday—”

“I need you to go there,” Mahanon said. “Gather the nobles, make certain you’re in front of that damned castle and stall.”

“Stall what?” Cullen asked.

“Just do what you can,” Mahanon said.

“And where are you going?” Cullen asked.

“I need to go to Redcliffe,” Mahanon said, the weight in his stomach almost dragging him down with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even when I didn't like Inquisition (What? It took me until my third playthrough to finally fall in love here) I did always admire their dedication to like, thigh high boots and lots of corset lacing and straps in weird places. It sure is some Aesthetic.


	16. Chapter 16

The first rift outside of Redcliffe had been bad enough. After it was closed and as the gates to the town where being open, Mahanon found himself standing in front of it, his heart beating as fast as a rabbit in his chest.

How had he not even come here last time? How had he _missed_ this?

The second one inside the Chantry was worse.

He stood there after he had used the anchor on it, staring blankly at where it still was closing in on itself, infinitesimally slow. Each crackle of light slunk in on itself, bright against the light of the Chantry and Mahanon wondered if this was what it had been like. He had died, and he had woken up, but what had happened to him in the between?

“Fascinating,” Dorian said from behind him and Mahanon had barely even reacted to his appearance, had taken to fighting beside him like he had all the others.

They must have such a high estimation of his skills, that he could work so well with them all.

“How does that work, exactly?” Dorian continued and Mahanon finally shook himself and turned his head.

“What?” he asked.

“The glowy green hand,” Dorian said. “I mean, you don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers and boom, it closes.”

“And also flares brightly and sometimes hurts like a bitch,” Mahanon said. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced yet.”

“Ah,” Dorian said, and he was posturing worse than Mahanon remembered. “I was getting ahead of myself again, wasn’t I?” He half bowed as he introduced himself. “Dorian of House Pavus, recently of Minrathous. How do you do?”

“Ugh,” Sera muttered behind Mahanon’s shoulder, making Dorian’s brows quirk together and up.

“Another Tevinter?” Blackwall asked behind him. “Weren’t the others enough?”

“Lovely friends you have here,” Dorian said, forcibly chipper and Mahanon winced. He heard another crackle and turned his head to see the rift finally flare itself out, leaving no trace of its existence. “Magister Alexius was once my mentor, so my assistance to you should be invaluable.”

“And why exactly are you betraying your mentor?” Mahanon asked. “You have to admit it is a little suspicious.”

“He was my mentor. He’s not any longer, and hasn’t been for some time. Look, you must know there’s danger. That should be obvious. It starts with Alexius claiming the rebel mages right from under you. Almost as if by magic, right? Which is exactly what happened. To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself.”

“That shouldn’t be possible,” Solas said, leaning against his staff. “Many have tried through the ages to manipulate time, but no one had ever succeeded.”

Dorian blinked at him, like he had missed the other mage standing there while Mahanon caught his breath. “You saw the rift here, didn’t you? It twisted time around itself. Sped some things up and slowed others down. Soon there will be more. The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable.”

“How unstable?” Mahanon asked and Dorian pinned him with an intense look.

“Well it’s unraveling the world.”

Mahanon stared at him before glancing at his hand. “Does time magic usually do that?” he asked.

“Well it’s never been done before,” Dorian said. “So who knows really.”

“Right,” Mahanon said weakly. “You’re asking a lot of me. About time magic, your help.”

“I know what I’m talking about,” Dorian snapped. “I helped develop this magic.”

“And you never stopped to think maybe that was an incredibly poor idea?” Mahanon asked, voice pitching high.

“It was pure theory,” Dorian protested. “I never thought it would actually work and neither did he. Now I just don’t understand why he’s doing this. Ripping time to shreds just to gain a few hundred lackeys.”

“He didn’t do it for them,” a new voice said, Felix appearing out of the shadows. Even having seen him at the tavern earlier, Mahanon found himself staring at him. Dorian had spoken of his friend, but last time Mahanon had never met him.

“Took you long enough,” Dorian said, brightening considerably to see him, and Mahanon hated that he knew how much time Felix had left. “Is he getting suspicious?"

“No, but I shouldn’t have played the illness card. He’s been fussing over me all day. My father’s joined a cult—” Mahanon sighed because he had hated the Venatori. “Everything he’s done, he’s done to get to you.”

Just like Envy had.

Considering Corypheus had insisted Mahanon was just a mistake, a blip in his larger plans, it did seem odd in hindsight just how intensely his servants wanted to hunt him down.

“For his own sake, you have to stop him,” Felix continued.

“It would also be nice if he didn’t rip a hole in time. There’s already a hole in the sky,” Dorian said.

He and Felix continued for another minute, Mahanon trying to pay attention past the panic in his throat. He glanced over at Solas, whose face remained impassive.

“I can’t stay in Redcliffe,” Dorian said. “But when you do finally go after Alexius, I want to be there. I’ll stay in touch.”

Mahanon opened his mouth, about to ask what Dorian would do if he didn’t agree to that but Dorian was already rolling right over him. “Oh, and Felix. Try not to get yourself killed.”

“There are worse things than death,” Felix said, but Dorian was already gone out the door.

“Well,” Blackwall said after a beat. “That’s something you don’t hear about every day.”

“Shitting time magic?” Sera said. “Could you come up with less weird stuff all the time?”

“Apparently a hole in the sky brings out the worst in people,” Mahanon said, rubbing a hand over his brow. After the strangeness of the mages in the tavern, he wasn’t sure he could handle anything else that night. “Felix,” he said, turning to the other man.

“You should go,” Felix said. “My father probably shouldn’t know you’ve been here.”

“Right,” Mahanon said. “We’ll just sneak out the back then.”

“Be careful,” Felix said, slipping away back into the shadows of the Chantry, leaving Mahanon and the others in the middle of the room. Mahanon shot the place where the rift had been another before shaking himself and walking away.

-0-

By the time they got back to the nearest Inquisition camp, an invitation from Alexius to return to Redcliffe to continue negotiations was already awaiting them.

“Well, that certainly looks like a trap,” Solas remarked as Mahanon paced in an agitated circle.

“No kidding,” he said, taking another turn around the fire in the center of the camp.

Solas had picked up the letter after Mahanon had tossed it down in disgust and now Sera took it from his hands, scanning over it herself.

“We should return to Haven,” Blackwall said.

“For what?” Mahanon asked. “Cullen and Josephine have already left for the East.”

“It is a trap,” Solas repeated. “You’re not planning just on walking into it, are you?”

“Out of other alternatives, I’m sincerely considering it,” Mahanon said.

“You can’t,” Sera said. “You’d have to be blinkered. You walk in there, he’s just gonna kill you.”

“You already have people with the Templars,” Blackwall pointed out. “Maybe the mages—”

“This isn’t just about them,” Mahanon said, another circuit around the fire. “It’s about a mage tearing apart time itself with no idea what the consequences of that might be.” He stopped, looking at Solas. “Truly? No one has succeeded in time magic before? Not even the ancient elves?”

Solas twitched once before giving Mahanon a confused look. “The Fade cannot tell me everything.”

“But that you know of,” Mahanon stressed. “Never? No theories, no suggestions, no idea what might happen or might cause it or—”

“What frightens you so much?” Solas asked.

“I think time tearing apart is enough to frighten anyone!” Mahanon said and took a deep breath, throttling his panic back down. He held his hands up in front of him, taking another breath and finally looked at Solas again. “I need to know.”

“I know nothing,” Solas said, shaking his head slightly.

“Great,” Mahanon said. “Alright. This is a trap. We need to figure out a way to get to him in that castle without dying.”

“I can’t quite figure out how we’d do that,” Blackwall said. “That castle has a reputation.”

“Is there any other way into there?” Mahanon asked.

“Unless you can track down the royal family who once lived there, I’m not sure who else would know,” Blackwall said.

“Didn’t the Warden get in there during the Blight? When it was occupied by the dead?” Mahanon asked. “I remember that story.” He turned. “Get me a Raven. Get me Leliana. Ask her if there’s another route into that castle.”

“Even if there is another route, what exactly do you intend to do?” Solas asked, watching him.

“If we can sneak the Inquisition in there,” Mahanon said. “If our troops could get in there unnoticed, I could distract Alexius and rest of his—cult—and they could take the castle.”

“This relies a lot on a secret entrance we don’t even know exists,” Solas pointed out.

“Find me that raven!” Mahanon yelled over his shoulder when no one seemed to be moving fast enough. 

“What happens if there isn’t another way inside?” Solas pressed.

“Then we worry about another plan,” Mahanon said, as one of the scouts finally brought him a raven. He scribbled off a quick message and sent it out, before he went back to pacing in a circle.

“You’re going to use yourself as bait,” Solas said. “Have you thought this through? You’re the only one who can close the rifts—”

“Which is also why I’m the only bait likely to work,” Mahanon asked, wondering how long it would take a raven to reach Haven.

“And then what do you intend to do?” Solas demanded. “You get into the castle, and you confront him and then what? Ask him to kindly undo his magic? If he’s joined a cult, I do not think you understand how fervently he is likely to believe in its cause.”

“I came here for the mages,” Mahanon said. “I’m not leaving them behind to slavery,” and Solas winced, so slightly Mahanon might have missed it if he wasn’t watching him so closely. “And I’m not leaving unresolved time magic behind my back. If you can come up with a better plan before morning, feel free to enlighten me with it. If not, good night,” and he looked at Blackwall and Sera to make sure they knew they were included before he stomped off.

He thought for a second Solas might follow him. He would have, in the past, to keep the argument going sometimes all the way inside Mahanon’s tent. Only half the time did that end with Mahanon pressed against the bedrolls, Solas kissing him until Mahanon was breathless and clinging to him. Somehow Solas had always acted like that meant he won the argument until the next day when Mahanon did exactly what he had said he was going to anyway.

But Solas didn’t follow him and Mahanon spent as many hours staring at the tent flap as he did asleep.

In the morning there was a raven from Leliana and Mahanon could only assume they were going to have a talk whenever he got back to Haven.

But she did in fact have a secret passage into the castle. It was up in the hills, through an old windmill and Solas’ expression proved he hadn’t come up with a better plan all night.

“That’s a stroke of luck,” Blackwall said as Mahanon stared at the parchment in his hand, rereading the lines over and over like he couldn’t quite believe they were true.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Solas asked.

“I just can’t believe there is a passageway and we know where it is,” Mahanon said before he finally crumbled the parchment in his hand and looked up. “Alright. Get ready to move out. The Inquisition troops should be in place within two hours.”

“I still advise against this,” Solas said.

“Duly noted,” Mahanon said and finally looked over at him. “What? Are you concerned for me? Should I be flattered?”

Solas scowled at him. “You’re walking into a trap.”

“You are worried,” Mahanon said and Solas turned and walked away rather than dignify that with a response.

Which, Mahanon supposed, was really only fair.

“Are we ready?” Blackwall asked from beside him.

“Yes,” Mahanon said. But before they could leave there was a commotion and Dorian Pavus appeared at the edges of camp, loudly proclaiming he wanted to see the Herald and Mahanon had to hide his smile for a second.

“Why Pavus,” he called. “Good of you to be so alert to our intentions. Would you like to come with us?”

And over the heads of several Inquisition soldiers, Dorian blinked at him before he shrugged. “Well, my calendar is clear. I think I can mark you in.”

“Then we’re going,” Mahanon said, striding forward to meet him.

“Well, that was easier than I expected,” Dorian admitted. “Just like that?”

“It’s about how you showed up yesterday,” Mahanon said and then his face fell. “Of course, I expect it’s going to be the only easy thing all day.”

“Oh there’s no need to be so cynical,” Dorian said.

Except there absolutely was, as the events of the day showed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never really liked the going back to Haven like oh there's this big time magic business we're just going to wander off--like I think that should have been the start of the quest not a random side thing you could do and THEN decide to go chat with the Templars. Always struck me as weird.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's not been quite a month since I last updated but dear readers, it has been a hell of a three weeks.

At first it looked like the plan would work perfectly. Alexius postured, Mahanon postured right back, and the Inquisition soldiers sneaked in the secret tunnel.

For a second Mahanon even found himself believing everything would work out like it should as the Inquisition cornered Alexius in his stolen throne room. If they left now, he would even make it to the Templars before the entire order was forced to take Red Lyrium or die.

Which in hindsight was too obviously a stupid thought to have as Alexius raised one hand and tore open a rift. Before Mahanon could raise the anchor to try and counter it, he was yanked through, tumbling head over heels into the green light.

He’d seen enough demons fading into the rifts but he’d never actually imagined what it would feel like to go through one himself like this.

Landing on his knees in several inches of water, Mahanon was ready to scream.

“Well, that was unexpected,” Dorian said from behind him.

“Somehow, going through fade rifts never gets more fun,” Mahanon muttered, because that had possibly been even worse than falling into the physical fade. He looked up and froze.

He heard Dorian hum, imagined him looking around. “I wonder where we are.”

“When,” Mahanon said, because Red Lyrium was crawling up the walls, glowing angrily. He hadn’t seen such advanced growth between the Temple of Sacred Ashes and Suledin Keep. The Red Lyrium on the Storm Coast and in the Hinterlands had been shorter, stubbier, newer.

This was not new.

“You think so?” Dorian asked. “I was just about to say that.”

“Could Alexius have sent us forward?” Mahanon asked, pushing himself back to his feet finally, his stomach lurching unhappily.

“Well, the rifts were acting quite strange,” Dorian said. “It—” But he broke off when two Venatori guards burst into the room, swords already drawn. Mahanon barely looked at them, and it took only a few moments to dispatch them.

“Venatori standards have really gone down,” Mahanon said.

“Have you encountered them before?” Dorian asked, looking at him sideways.

Mahanon swallowed. “Well, you’d think a cult based on the accession of a new god would have stricter recruiting methods is all.”

He bent down, turning one of the bodies over and frowning. “We need to figure out when we are and what happened.”

“Don’t suppose they have a handy history of their order on them?” Dorian asked and Mahanon straightened up.

“Why make things easy?” he asked. At the door he paused, looking back in the small cell they had appeared in. “The others aren’t here.”

“Maybe they landed somewhere else,” Dorian said. “Or they weren’t pulled in at all. I was standing right next to you after all.”

“Right,” Mahanon said, remembering the way Solas still held himself apart from the others whenever they stood anywhere and he felt his stomach twist, fear worming its way in. What if he should never have come here— “Well. Time to move out.”

“To do what?” Dorian asked.

“Figure out what happened,” Mahanon said. “And maybe, depending on when we are and what did happen, figure out if there’s a way to get _back_ to the time we just were thrown out of.”

“Ah, a solid idea,” Dorian said. “I have a theory about that. I'll work on it as we walk.”

“Good,” Mahanon said, yanking the cell door open.

Dorian followed him, and they crept up the first set of stairs, Mahanon tilting his head back to stare at every spur of Red Lyrium they passed.

“I think this castle has seen some better days,” Dorian said.

“This isn’t right,” Mahanon said, glad suddenly that Varric hadn’t come with them. He wished he could take his old sledgehammer to every outgrowth of the rocks, but he hadn’t gotten around to forging one yet. He was still using the double handed sword Cassandra had given him shortly after he woke up the second time. They passed many empty rooms, a sense of dread growing in Mahanon. 

The first occupied cell they found had a mage, muttering nonsense in a voice that wasn’t right. Mahanon found his eyes following the strange red crackle across his skin, and he wanted to sit down. But the mage wouldn’t come with them and the next room was empty.

They passed by more empty cells.

“Do you think we’ll find anyone in here?” Dorian asked.

“I don’t know,” Mahanon said. “But I don’t think the Venatori are going to be giving us any answers. Our best chance is down,” and he pushed open the next door and came to a shuddering stop, Dorian almost running into him. “Here,” he finished faintly, as Solas turned around in the cell and did a double take. “Solas?” he asked, and his voice broke.

“You’re alive,” Solas said and Mahanon almost tripped in the puddle of water on the prison floor, catching himself on the bars of Solas’ cage. “We saw you die.”

“No,” Mahanon said.

“The spell Alexius cast displaced us in time. We just got here, so to speak,” Dorian said.

“Can you reverse the process?” Solas asked. “You could return and change the events of the last year. It may not be too late.”

“A year?” Mahanon asked, because there was something wrong with Solas’ voice too. The same red glow was along his skin and in his eyes. “It’s been a year? What happened? What’s wrong with you?”

“You know nothing of this world.” Solas said and Mahanon couldn’t stand it anymore, pulling the cell door open and allowing Solas to step through. “Things are worse than you would understand. Alexius severed a master. The Elder One. He reigns now, unchallenged. His minions assassinated the Empress and used the chaos to invade the South. This Elder One commands an army of demons. After you stop Alexius, you must be prepared.”

“Why didn’t you do anything to stop it?” Mahanon asked, and he realized he was still holding on to the cage door to keep himself upright.

Solas stared at him. “You were dead.”

“So?” Mahanon asked. “You’re more powerful than this, you should have been able—”

“Against someone called the Elder One, with an army of demons behind his back?” Solas asked, looking at him. “You have a high estimation of me indeed.” Solas looked away for a second before turning back. “You must stop him. You must go back. If there’s anyway to achieve that, my life is yours. This world is an abomination. It must never come to pass.”

Mahanon stared at him, holding onto the door as the world spun around for a moment. “What?”

“This world must never be,” Solas said and Mahanon felt his mouth open, his lips move, but nothing came out. “Why do you doubt that? Do you not understand just from looking at this castle how wrong things are? This,” and he lifted his arms, gesturing to himself. “This poison?”

“Dorian,” Mahanon said, voice tight.

“Yes?” Dorian asked.

“Could you give us a moment, please?” Mahanon asked.

“A moment? Like, right now?” Dorian asked.

“Yes,” Mahanon said, and Dorian looked once between them before he shrugged, walking to the far side of the cells, standing in the door and whistling. “I don’t understand.”

“What is there not to understand?” Solas asked. “This time is a mockery, a disaster. If you can undo it—”

“But you want to tear down the Veil,” Mahanon said, because he couldn’t figure out how that had happened and Solas froze, staring at him. “You _gave_ Corypheus that Orb to begin with. You wanted the Breach that’s why you gave it to him, that’s why—and you just _let_ this happen? I know you’re more powerful, how did—” Mahanon couldn’t stop himself from talking, even though part of him insisted he should still be keeping his secrets close to his chest.

But, if they did manage to get out of this, and return to the moment they disappeared, Solas would never remember this conversation.

“How do you know,” Solas started and then floundered. “ _Any_ of that?”

“Because I know who you are, Fen’Harel,” Mahanon said and Solas could only stare.

They spent a long, aching moment like that, Mahanon in his shining armor and Solas standing only in his patched tunic and wolf jaw necklace.

“I do not understand,” Solas said and Mahanon leaned forward, getting into his space, more aggressive than he had been since he had woken up with a clear sky and no anchor in his hand.

“This isn’t the first time I traveled in time,” he said, hoping Dorian wasn’t actually listening.

Solas’ eyes dropped to his armor. “I knew I recognized that stone.”

“Yes,” Mahanon said.

“Even though you had the armor before the rifts even opened.” Solas squinted at him, as if more things were falling into place. “You know who I am.”

“Yes,” Mahanon said, voice strained against the word.

“And yet,” Solas started and stopped. “And yet you have let me stay with you.”

Mahanon bit the inside of his cheek hard. “Yes.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” Solas asked, wrapping one hand in the bars of the cage door and leaning slightly down, even closer to Mahanon.

“Because I need to know how things came to this,” Mahanon said. “How did you let this happen?”

“Because I was not strong enough to stop it,” Solas said. “Are you?”

Mahanon paused, meeting Solas’ eyes and he felt his heart twist. “I was.”

“Then we find a way to send you back,” Solas said and paused. “And if you go back, I won’t remember this conversation, and you’ll keep lying to me.”

“Yes,” Mahanon said again, his knuckles having gone white on the cell bars. “As long as I can I will lie to you.”

“How did it end?” Solas asked.

“What?” Mahanon replied.

“How did it end? Before you came back to the past?”

“You stabbed me in the back,” Mahanon said, and couldn’t look away from the strange weird glow in Solas’ eyes.

“Then why have you let me stay?” Solas asked. “I just woke up. I’m barely more powerful than an average mage, I needed the Orb to perform any high-level magic. You could kill me now and I wouldn’t be able to stop you.”

“Don’t,” Mahanon said.

“Why have you let me stay?” Solas asked. “If you know who I am, if you know what I will do,” and they were already so close together so Mahanon just tilted his face up and slammed their mouths together, his free hand going to the side of Solas’ neck.

He meant it to prove a point, but instead he found himself lost in it for a moment, because he ached with how much he missed Solas and to hold him again, even after everything made Mahanon’s hands ache. But then Solas used his hand that wasn’t on the cell door to wrap around Mahanon’s waist and pull him closer, kissing Mahanon like he wanted to devour him.

Mahanon whimpered, trying to breath through his nose to keep from breaking the kiss but eventually he had to.

Solas’ eyes were closed when Mahanon drew back. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Are you?” Mahanon asked, too much bite in his voice for how weak his knees were.

“You think you can change my mind,” Solas said. “You think you’ll convince me your world is worth saving. Because you love me.”

Mahanon laughed, but it felt torn out of him. “Yes.”

“When you go back,” Solas said, his hand coming up to trace along Mahanon’s cheek. “You should probably kill me.”

“I couldn’t,” Mahanon whispered. “I’ve thought about it but I—I can’t,” he looked away. “Besides, you almost sound like you’re almost on my side.”

“I am a very hard person to convince of anything,” Solas said, he sounded almost pitying, hand so warm on Mahanon’s cheek. “I broke the world. It is my pride that means I must fix it.”

“You changed it, you didn’t break it,” Mahanon said and Solas’ smile was definitely pitying now. “But that doesn’t matter,” and he turned his head away so Solas’ hand dropped down. “Because you apparently hate this world even more. We should set about fixing it.”

“You know, I thought you hated me,” Solas said. “And it upset me because I couldn’t hate you in turn.”

“Sometimes I do,” Mahanon said, not looking at him.

“And the rest of the time?”

“The rest of the time I love you so much, even though you killed me. Even though you told me we didn’t feel real to you but you loved me anyway. Even after everything you did to me I love you,” and his voice broke again on the word _love_.

“When you go back,” Solas said.

“ _If_ we get back,” Mahanon said.

“You should tell me that,” Solas said.

“I don’t know how,” Mahanon said. He finally dropped his hand and stepped back, squaring his shoulders and rebuilding himself from the ground up. Solas watched him, like he could see him piecing himself back together. “But we must go. If you are here—”

“Some of the others were,” Solas said. “Sera, Blackwall. I have not seen them in months.”

“Then we should look for them,” Mahanon said, cleared his throat, and turned away.

Dorian was at the door and he had scrounged a staff up from a nearby cell while they had been talking. “It looks a bit rusty,” he said, handing it to Solas who slowly wrapped his fingers around it. “But I guess that’s a benefit of having so many mages in Redcliffe before everything went wrong.”

“Apparently,” Solas said and Mahanon soldiered ahead, back in the lead again.

“So,” Dorian said, only about a step behind. “I guess I never really had a chance with you, did I?”

Mahanon swallowed hard, down on the old acidic pain. “No, sorry.”

“Ah well,” Dorian said, over exaggerated. “I’m sure there will be someone else out there for me.”

And Mahanon swallowed down his reply to that too, because well.

He remembered how that had ended.


	18. Chapter 18

They found Sera and Blackwall in the same state as Solas, and Fiona trapped inside of the Red Lyrium.

When they let Sera out, she twitched away from Mahanon, like he really was a ghost. Mahanon tried not to react, jaw set as they forged forward toward the throne room where Alexius had become a recluse. Along the way they found more Venatori, more Red Lyrium, and more bodies.

Mahanon knelt down next to the body of a chantry mother. “I’m surprised there are still people for them to find and murder like this.”

“People are good at hiding,” Blackwall said. “It takes more than a year to break everyone.”

Mahanon stayed there for another moment, eyes closed. “How bad has it gotten?”

“Don’t rightly know,” Sera said. “All we get are the guards. Been trapped since you went missing. Being,” and she gestured to herself much like Solas had earlier. “I don’t want to become lyrium. I don’t want to become part of a wall.”

Mahanon took another deep breath and rose. “Fiona mentioned Leliana was captured.”

“They crowed about that all week,” Sera said. “We don’t hear much but we heard that.”

“And that Alexius won’t come out anymore,” Blackwall said.

“And the rest of the Inquisition?” Mahanon asked.

“Aside from Leliana,” Blackwall said and shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

Mahanon swallowed again. “Maybe we can ask Leliana.”

But when they finally found Leliana, face scared and sunken, she was angry and brushed off Dorian’s questions about what happened.

“You don’t want to know,” she snapped, riffling through a chest, finding her bow and honestly, Mahanon thought, keeping the weapons of a captive in the same room as them just seemed to be asking for trouble. “This isn’t real to you. You think you can wave a hand and it will all be over. So what’s the point of knowing?”

“I want to know,” Mahanon said. “I want to know exactly what happened.”

“Why?” Leliana said, eyes narrowed. “You just plan to wipe this away like it never happened. Why would you want to know the details of the horror we’ve lived?”

“So I can stop it,” Mahanon said, holding himself carefully, angry too. “So I know what to make sure never comes to pass.”

Leliana had been angry at him before. But usually her sharp tongue was the end of it and he wasn’t certain he actually wanted to know what brought her to this, and Solas to completely giving up. But there was a gnawing sense of panic rising in his chest because he had already started to change things. What if the mages couldn’t close the Breach? What if traveling back to when Alexius threw them forward didn’t even matter?

What if he’d already doomed the future?

“We don’t have the time,” Leliana said, striding out of the room and leaving Mahanon’s hands shaking.

They continued through the castle, Mahanon picking up any piece of paper he could find, going through guard’s journals as they walked, and closing rifts as they passed.

“Are you sure your plan will work?” Mahanon asked Dorian after they watched two mages turn into shades down at the docks.

“Not precisely,” Dorian said. “The theory is solid. It’s just the execution—”

“It has something to do with the amulet Alexius was holding, doesn’t it?” Mahanon asked.

“Yes, of course,” Dorian said.

“So we won’t know until we have that.”

“Precisely,” Dorian said.

“Right,” Mahanon said, and he wished they could have given the desperate mages anything to mark their passing instead of just moving on.

“You look tense,” Dorian remarked.

“I can’t imagine why,” Mahanon said, but he was used to walking on when his entire soul ached to lay down so he did. He even almost managed to avoid looking at Solas too often.

But when they finally made it to the courtyard of Redcliffe Castle he staggered like someone had stuck him and teetered like he might fall to his knees. The Breach had taken over the entire sky, starting to pull the stone of the castle apart and toward it.

“It just kept expanding,” Leliana said as Mahanon pressed a hand against his breastplate. Even though he couldn’t feel the pressure, sometimes the motion helped him hold it together. “Eventually it might eat the whole world.”

“Why hasn’t he gone through it?” Mahanon asked. “It’s so big, shouldn’t have been able to—”

“You mean the Elder One?” Blackwall asked and Solas was watching him again.

“Yes,” Mahanon said, staring at the Breach.

He had never realized it could get so bad.

He had wondered what would happen if they failed. He remembered the sky falling as Solas looked at him with pity. But in the between, he had never realized what Corypheus was capable of.

“Are you alright?” Dorian asked, and Mahanon realized he had been staring so intently he had blocked out what anyone was saying.

“Not particularly,” he said, shaking himself out of it and dropping his hand. “Let’s go.”

There were two rifts in the courtyard and another beyond the doors into the castle’s hall leading to the throne room. Mahanon tried not to look around, because he was already a single step away from panic so he put his head down and fought on.

They discovered a Red Lyrium shard, fastened like it was supposed to fit into something and matched it up to the throne room door. “I think Alexius has gone a few shades past usual paranoia,” Dorian remarked. “Looks like there should be four more.”

“So we just go around killing Venatori and hoping they have a key on them?” Mahanon asked.

“Do you have any other plans?” Dorian asked.

“Not even remotely,” Mahanon said, but hunting Venatori didn’t make him feel better. Solas caught up to him in what used to be a chapel as Dorian poked through bodies, looking for the shards.

“You don’t look well,” Solas said and Mahanon’s teeth grit at how wrong his voice was.

“I don’t feel all that well,” he said, looking down at what had been a pulpit once in another world. “This is… worse than anything I knew.”

“Because you were there to check him,” Solas said.

“One person shouldn’t matter this much,” Mahanon said, picking up a burned book and dropping it again. “When I—woke up before the conclave. I almost didn’t go. I almost just ran. To know that,” his eyes darted around the room and he looked down again.

“You would never have really ran,” Solas said.

“It still,” Mahanon said. “It still shouldn’t have mattered this much. One person, to change fate this much and,” he looked away abruptly again.

“Found it!” Dorian called from across the room, holding a red shard up.

Solas started to walk toward him but Mahanon caught his arm, pulling him back and holding his other hand up to ask Dorian to wait a moment. “Earlier. Why did you say that?”

“Which that?” Solas asked.

“That I should kill you,” Mahanon said.

“Because you still think I can be convinced to change my ways,” Solas said and Mahanon dropped his hand like Solas’ skin burned him. “No matter what you do, my path is already set. But I won’t convince you of that, will I?”

“Because you sound like you want to be stopped,” Mahanon said and walked back over to Dorian, his teeth grinding together hard enough his head ached.

-0-

When they finally made it into the throne room, Alexius already looked half defeated, slumped over with Felix crouching beside him. Dorian cried out to see his friend and Mahanon remembered how quickly he had died after they reached Skyhold. He hoped, considering how much quicker it had been that Felix had never been forced to endure this.

“Was it worth it?” Dorian demanded, face twisted up.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Alexius said, shaking his head. “All we can do is wait for the end.”

“What end?” Mahanon asked.

Alexius just laughed. “The irony that you should appear _now_ , of all the possibilities.”

Mahanon felt his stomach drop. “He’s coming here, isn’t he?” he asked. “The Elder One. To cross over into the Breach.”

But Alexius barely seemed to be listening to him, even as Dorian and Leliana both gave him a sideways look. “All that I fought for, all that I betrayed, and what have I wrought? Ruin and death, there is nothing else. The Elder One comes.”

Mahanon took a step back, staring at the door as if Coryphaeus might stroll through in that exact second.  

But then Leliana slit Felix’s throat and Alexius fought them tooth and nail, rifts opening up in the middle of the throne room.

For having been tortured and locked up for months the others fell in behind Mahanon like they had never left his side. Except Solas, who’s magic was still weak compared to what Mahanon knew it could be. But it was far more powerful than anything he had exhibited in the Hinterlands, making Dorian rock back in surprise at one point as an ice spell arched past him, twisting around before splashing on the ground.

Mahanon just pushed through, as Alexius lost more and more ground, eventually falling with a last faint, “Time’s up.”

“He wanted to die, didn’t he?” Dorian asked, leaning down to close his mentor’s eyes. He paused before also lifting an amulet off Alexius’ chest.

“I don’t think he had much to live for anymore,” Mahanon said and they both looked over to where Felix lay. “I know they both meant a lot to you.”

“Yes, well,” Dorian looked away. “At least this looks like the same amulet, the one we needed. Give me an hour and I should have the spell to send us back figured out.”

“An hour?” Leliana demanded. “You don’t have an hour. You must go now.”

Before she even finished speaking the room started to shake with the unmistakable roar of the false archdemon. Mahanon stared at the ceiling. “Yes, it seems the Elder One is already here.”

Dorian’s eyes widened as Sera and Blackwall looked at each other. “We can give you whatever time we can,” Blackwall said.

“What?” Mahanon’s head snapped over to him.

“Nightingale,” Blackwall continued, like he hadn’t heard. “It will be up to you to give them as much time as possible.”

“No,” Mahanon said, taking several steps down the dais at the far end of the throne room. “Absolutely not. You—”

“The point is that you’re going to change this, isn’t it?” Solas asked him, even as Blackwall and Sera left through the door. “Our deaths aren’t going to matter when the world is reset.”

“No,” Mahanon said again, even as Leliana took her spot in front of the door. “This isn’t—you can’t make me watch you die.”

“You don’t have much choice,” Solas pointed out, as Dorian turned, moving his hand over the amulet, even though his fingers were shaking in stress as something started pounding on the door. “Our deaths won’t matter in the end. Except to make certain this will never happen.”

“We’re already dead,” Leliana said as the door shook again.

Solas gently pushed Mahanon, trying to make him go back up the stairs to where Dorian stood. “It will help the spell if you stand on the spot you hope to return to.”

“Solas—”

The door burst open, demons spilling through. Mahanon caught sight of Sera’s limp body being tossed to one side and he opened his mouth to yell when Solas grabbed his face, pulling him around for a kiss, soft in the face of so many demons.

But then Solas was gone, throwing a wall of magic at the first wave of demons, Leliana still standing at the door, shooting arrow after arrow.

Mahanon stood, frozen. He didn’t want to watch as much as he couldn’t look away.

“Mahanon!” Dorian yelled when he started to walk forward. Dorian grabbed him and yanked him back. “You move and we all die!”

“But,” Mahanon started as he saw Leliana stumble and fall, a terror demon jumping on her from. Solas still stood, but a Venatori had driven a sword through his chest from behind and Mahanon could have screamed except in that second the portal opened, Dorian still holding his hand as they staggered through it.

He turned, and there was Alexius, taking a step away from him.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Dorian said, his voice light even though his face was still ashen as Mahanon advanced on Alexius, who kept walking backwards. But when he reached his son he stopped, and dropped to his knees.

Mahanon wanted to wrap his hands around his throat for the future he had just seen. Instead he took a breath, looked sideways and saw Sera and Blackwall and Solas standing there, watching him in some surprise. There were cuts on his face from one of the rifts in the courtyard, and blood covering his armor that hadn’t been there only second before.

“Put aside all claims to Redcliffe,” he said, looking back at Alexius. “And we’ll let you live.”

“You won,” Alexius said with a lift of his shoulders. “There’s not point extending this charade.”

Mahanon sucked in an angry breath, because he could still smell the fire and ash and blood as Venatori and demons crashed into the throne room. “Take what little mercy I have left,” he ground out. “For your son, if nothing else.”

“Felix,” Alexius said, turning his head to look at his son and Mahanon couldn’t bear it anymore, turning on his heel.

“Fiona,” he snapped and she cautiously approached him. But before they could continue the doors to the castle opened, royal troops stomping inside.

“What the hell?” Mahanon asked, taking several steps down the dais. He paused when he reached Solas, looking over at him and finding himself unable to stop his hands shaking.

“What is it?” Solas asked, and Mahanon could only think about the furious kiss in the dungeons.

But before Mahanon could answer, the king and queen of Ferelden walked into the room.

“Grand enchanter,” Alistair said, Anora standing beside him with her mouth thinned. “We must discuss your abuse of our hospitality.”

“Or we could just skip that,” Mahanon said and both the monarchs looked over at him in some surprise.

“Could we?” Anora asked, with an ice in her voice that Mahanon recognized from her father at his most annoyed. He wondered if they had ever seen each other in the years since Loghain became a Grey Warden and he could only hope that they had.

“We came here to recruit the mages into the Inquisition,” Mahanon said and Fiona stared at him.  

“Recruit us?” she asked. “So we can become slaves to you instead of Tevinter?”

“I said recruit, not enslave,” Mahanon said. “I ask the free mages to join the Inquisition as allies, as equals.” He heard several sucked in breaths behind him. “We will over you protection, and you will no longer be wearing on Ferelden’s hospitality.”

“The Inquisition already is,” Anora pointed out.

Mahanon stared at her a moment. “We have done nothing but help, to offer aid to your people and to attempt to close the Breach. Besides, I believe technically we are inhabiting some minor Orlesian noble’s land. It’s all very obscure but I’m sure if you contact our ambassador, she can discuss our status with you. Either way, I ask the mages to join us,” and he turned back to Fiona.

“You really mean as equal partners?” Fiona asked, skeptical.

“Yes,” Mahanon said, and he felt Solas’ look at his back even as Sera made a disgusted noise. “I do mean that.”

“Then,” Fiona hesitated, looking at where some Inquisition guards had already taken Alexius away. “We can do little but accept your offer.”

“Will that satisfy you?” Mahanon asked, turning back to the monarchs who were watching him.

“I suppose,” Anora said and Alistair shrugged.

“Excellent,” Mahanon said, aware he was still covered in blood, his armor shining through it in the low light from the torches. “Good. Please, grand enchanter, gather your people and meet us in Haven. Now, I have somewhere to go.”

“We do?” Blackwall asked behind him as Mahanon started for the door, finding Harding waiting outside with the horses.

“Leliana said you would want these as soon as possible,” Harding said with some doubt in her voice.

“Yes,” Mahanon said, swinging himself up, Solas and Sera and Blackwall following him automatically. “Has there been any news from Cullen?”

“Here,” Harding said, handing him a note. “That came just a few minutes ago.”

Mahanon scanned the few lines that said all was quiet and frowned. There was time but _how much_?

“You left those monarchs speechless,” Dorian said, having followed. “I don’t think they’re used to people just walking out like that.”

“I’ve left monarchs speechless before,” Mahanon said without thinking, Solas giving him a sharp look. “Are you coming?”

“What?” Dorian asked.

“I have more people to try and save,” Mahanon said as Dorian blinked at him. “Are you coming or not?”

“Do you want me to come?”

“Would you rather go back to Tevinter?” Mahanon asked, taking the horse’s reins in his hands after he tucked Cullen’s note into his armor.

“Not yet,” Dorian said.

“Then get on a horse, Dorian,” Mahanon said, already urging his own forward.

“You’re in a rush,” Solas said, his horse following Mahanon. “What happened? You look terrible.”

“I’ll tell you later,” Mahanon said, trying to breath through the ache.

He didn’t plan on telling Solas, hoping Dorian might get around to it before he had to. Instead he just pushed his horse faster as they left Redcliffe behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So some people have mentioned not finding the Ardent Blossom in their playthrough or not getting the flower references so [here's the quest](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/The_Tiniest_Cave) to find the flower crown. Let's be honest, there's pretty much no way you could have stumbled on this without knowing what you were about ahahaha. (Not mentioned is that this quest is one of the few ties with Origins because the voice in the tiny cave is the same as the Mad Hermit you find in the forest during the Dalish quest of Origins) 
> 
> Also there is like ONE way to get Alistair to be king AND recruit Loghain in Origins and now that I finally pulled that off that's my personal canon forever. Partly because I think narrative wise Loghain is the best warden to have in Inquisition. Like I sorta massively hate Alistair doesn't get character development in ten years and Stroud is such a non entity it almost doesn't matter. But Loghain's story dovetails nicely with Hawke's self loathing in Inquisition. Plus, I love Loghain ahahaha so we're having him in this story. (Just in case anyone was wondering how Alistair is king while Mahanon references knowing Loghain in this chapter)


End file.
